WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 


Californii 

egional 

icility 


[BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAT  IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


Fate  Knocks  At  The  Door 

A  Novel 


By  WILL  LEXINGTON  COMFORT 

She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  The  strongest  American  novel." — Chicago  Journal. 
"  Even  stronger  than  his  earlier  novel." 

—Baton  Tranicrift. 

"  Stands  out  in  a  bright  light,  and  will  live  when 
lesser  sisters  are  forgotten." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 
"  Transcriptive   of  everybody's  life.     .     .     .     Will 
Levington  Comfort,  an  American  literary  asset,  un 
limited."—  Washington  Star. 
"  Unsurpassed  for  greatness  in  many  years." 

—Pittsburgh  Diifatch. 

"•  Style  hat  distinction.  Every  page  is  stamped  with 
the  hall-mark  of  brains."—  Chicago  Ricord-Hirald. 

With  colored  frontispiece  by  MARTIN  JUSTICE. 

Decorated  cloth,  net  $1.25. 

Routledge    Rides    Alone 

"My  candidate  for  the  Nobel  Peace  Prize." 

— EDWIN  MARKHAM. 
"One  of  the  best  stories  of  its  kind  we  ever  read." 

— r*«  Dial. 

"A  gripping  story.  The  terrible  intensity  of  the 
writer  holds  one  chained  to  the  book." 

— Chicago  Tribuni. 

"Three  such  magnificent  figures  (as  Routledge, 
Noreen,  and  Rawder)  have  seldom  appeared  together 
in  fiction.  For  knowledge,  energy,  artistic  concep 
tion,  and  literary  skill,  it  is  easily  the  book  of  the 
day — a  great  novel — one  of  the  few  novels  that  are  as 
ladders  from  heaven  to  earth." 

—  San  Franciico  Argonaut. 

With  colored  frontispiece  by  MARTIN  JumcK. 

I2ma.      Cloth,v>ith  inlaj  in  color,  ff. JO. 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  PHILADELPHIA 


"  IT  HAD  TO  BE  IN  THE  GREAT  SUNLIGHT—  THAT!" 

Page  245 


m        mm 


Fate  Knocks  At 
The  Door 

A  Novel 

By 

Will   Levington   Comfort 

Author  of 
"  Routledge  Rides  Alone,"  "  She  Buildeth  Her  House,"  etc. 


With  a  Frontispiece  by 

M.    Leone    Bracker 


Philadelphia  &  London 

J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 

1912 


^*w        Jk          "™"^^~        h^  J^ 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BT  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


PUBLISHED  APRIL,    1912 


PRINTED    BT  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 

AT  THE   WASHINGTON   SQUARE   PRESS 

PHILADELPHIA,  D.  8.  A. 


3505 


In  speaking  of  the  first  four  notes  of  the  opening 
movement,  Beethoven  said,  some  time  after  he  had 
finished  the  Fifth  Symphony:  "  So  pocht  das  Shicksal 
an  die  Pforte"  ("Thus  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door"); 
and  between  that  opening  knock,  and  the  tremendous 
rush  and  sweep  of  the  Finale,  the  emotions  which 
come  into  play  in  the  great  conflicts  of  life  are  depicted. 

— From  Upton's  Standard  Symphonies. 


637353 


To 

THE  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 


Contents 

I.  ASIA.     (Allegro  con  brio.)  PAGE 

First  Chapter:  The  Great  Wind  Strikes 13 

Second  Chapter:  The  Pack-Train  in  Luzon 23 

Third  Chapter:  Red  Pigment  of  Service 30 

Fourth  Chapter:  That  Adelaide  Passion 41 

Fifth  Chapter:  A  Flock  of  Flying  Swans 54 

Sixth  Chapter:  That  Island  Somewhere 65 

Seventh  Chapter:  Andante  con  Moto— Fifth 78 

Eighth  Chapter:  The  Man  from  The  Pleiad 89 

II.  NEW  YORK.     (Andante  con  moto.) 

Ninth  Chapter:  The  Long- Awaited  Woman 97 

Tenth  Chapter:  The  Jews  and  the  Romans 109 

Eleventh  Chapter:  Two  Davids  Come  to  Beth 121 

Twelfth  Chapter:  Two  Lesser  Adventures 131 

Thirteenth  Chapter:  About  Shadowy  Sisters 138 

Fourteenth  Chapter  :  This  Clay-and-Paint  Age 143 

Fifteenth  Chapter:  The  Story  of  the  Mother 156 

Sixteenth  Chapter:  "Through  Desire  for  Her." 169 

Seventeenth  Chapter:  The  Plan  of  the  Builder 173 

Eighteenth  Chapter:  That  Park  Predicament 183 

Nineteenth  Chapter:  In  the  House  of  Grey  One 189 

Twentieth  Chapter:  A  Chemistry  of  Scandal 199 

Twenty-first  Chapter:  The  Singing  Distances 212 

Twenty-second  Chapter:  Beth  Signs  the  Picture 222 

Twenty-third  Chapter:  The  Last  Ride  Together 234 

Twenty-fourth  Chapter:  A  Parable  of  Two  Horses 247 

III.  EQUATORIA.     (Allegro.    Scherzo.) 

Twenty-fifth  Chapter:  Bedient  for  The  Pleiad 259 

Twenty-sixth  Chapter:  How  Startling  is  Truth 268 

Twenty-seventh  Chapter:  The  Art  of  Miss  Mallory 276 

Twenty-eighth  Chapter:  A  Further  Note  from  Rey 283 

Twenty-ninth  Chapter:  At  Treasure  Island  Inn 292 

9 


10  Contents 

III.  EQUATORIA.— Continued  PAGE 

Thirtieth  Chapter:  Miss  Mallory's  Mastery 300 

Thirty-first  Chapter:  The  Glow-worm's  One  Hour 309 

Thirty-second  Chapter:  In  the  Little  Room  Next 319 

Thirty- third  Chapter:  The  Hills  and  the  Skies 326 

Thirty-fourth  Chapter:  The  Supreme  Adventure 331 

Thirty-fifth  Chapter:  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 337 

IV.  NEW  YORK.     (Allegro.     Finale.) 

Thirty-sixth  Chapter:  The  Great  Prince  House 343 

Thirty-seventh  Chapter:  Beth  and  Adith  Mallory 348 

Thirty-eighth  Chapter:  A  Self-Conscious  Woman 358 

Thirty-ninth  Chapter:  Another  Smilax  Affair 363 

Fortieth  Chapter:  Full  Day  Upon  the  Plain 371 


I 

ASIA 

Allegro  con  brio 


Fate  Knocks  At  The  Door 

FIRST  CHAPTER 

THE  GREAT  WIND  STRIKES 

ANDREW  BEDIENT,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  in  a  single 
afternoon, — indeed,  in  one  moment  of  a  single  afternoon, 
— performed  an  action  which  brought  him  financial 
abundance  for  his  mature  years.  Although  this  narrative 
less  concerns  the  boy  Bedient  than  the  man  as  he 
approaches  twice  seventeen,  the  action  is  worthy  of 
account,  beyond  the  riches  that  it  brought,  because  it 
seems  to  draw  him  into  somewhat  clearer  vision  from 
the  shadows  of  a  very  strange  boyhood. 

April,  1895,  the  Truxton,  of  which  Andrew  was  cook, 
found  herself  becalmed  in  the  China  Sea,  midway  be 
tween  Manila  and  Hong  Kong,  her  nose  to  the  North. 
She  was  a  smart  clipper  of  sixty  tons  burden,  with  a 
slightly  uptilted  stern,  and  as  clever  a  line  forward  as  a 
pleasure  yacht.  She  was  English,  comparatively  new, 
and,  properly  used  by  the  weather,  was  as  swift  and 
sprightly  of  service  as  an  affectionate  woman.  Her  mas 
ter  was  Captain  Carreras,  a  tubby  little  man  of  forty-five, 
bald,  modest,  and  known  among  the  shipping  as  "  a  per 
fect  lady."  He  wore  a  skull-cap  out  of  port ;  and  as  con 
stantly,  except  during  meals,  carried  one  of  a  set  of 
rarely-colored  meerschaum-bowls,  to  which  were  attach 
able,  bamboo-stems,  amber-tipped  and  of  various  lengths. 

The  little  Captain  was  fastidious  in  dress,  wearing  soft 
shirts  of  white  silk,  fine  duck  trousers  and  scented  silk 
handkerchiefs,  which  he  carried  in  his  left  hand  with  the 
meerschaum-bowl.  The  Carreras  perfume,  mingled  with 
fresh  tobacco,  was  never  burdensome,  and  unlike  any 

13 


14  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

other.  The  silk  handkerchief  was  as  much  a  feature  of 
the  Captain's  appearance  as  the  skull-cap.  To  it  was  due 
the  really  remarkable  polish  of  the  perfect  clays  so  regu 
larly  cushioned  in  his  palm.  Always  for  dinner,  the 
Captain's  toilet  was  fresh  throughout.  Invariably,  too, 
he  brought  with  him  an  unfolded  handkerchief  upon 
which  he  placed,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table  when  the 
weather  was  fair  (and  in  the  socket  of  the  fruit-bowl 
when  the  weather-frames  were  on),  a  ready-filled  pipe. 
This  he  took  to  hand  when  coffee  was  brought. 

His  voice  was  seldom  raised.  He  found  great  diffi 
culty  in  expressing  himself,  except  upon  affairs  of  the 
ship;  yet,  queerly  enough,  there  were  times  when  he 
seemed  deeply  eager  to  say  the  things  which  came  of  his 
endless  silences.  As  unlikely  a  man  as  you  would  find  in 
the  Pacific,  or  any  other  merchant-service,  was  this  Car- 
reras ;  a  gentleman,  if  a  very  bashful  one ;  a  deeply-read 
and  kindly  man,  although  it  was  quite  as  difficult  for  him 
to  extend  a  generous  action,  directly  to  be  found  out, — 
and  his  mind  was  continually  furnishing  inclinations  of 
this  sort, — as  it  was  to  express  his  thoughts.  Either 
brought  on  a  nervous  tension  which  left  him  shaken  and 
drained.  The  right  woman  would  have  adored  Captain 
Carreras,  and  doubtless  would  have  called  forth  from 
his  breast  a  love  of  heroic  dimension ;  but  she  would  have 
been  forced  to  do  the  winning;  to  speak  and  take  the 
initiative  in  all  but  the  giving  of  happiness.  Temperate 
for  a  bachelor,  clean  throughout,  charmingly  innocent 
of  the  world,  and  a  splendid  seaman.  To  one  of  fine 
sensibilities,  there  was  something  about  the  person  of 
Captain  Carreras  of  softly  glowing  warmth,  and  rarely 
tender. 

Bedient  had  been  with  him  as  cook  for  over  a  year, 
during  which  the  Truxton  had  swung  down  to  Australia 
and  New  South  Wales,  and  called  at  half  the  Asiatic 
and  insular  ports  from  Vladivostok  to  Bombay.  Since 
he  was  a  little  chap  (back  of  which  were  the  New  York 


The  Great  Wind  Strikes  15 

memories,  vague,  but  strange  and  persistent),  there  had 
always  been  some  ship  for  Bedient,  but  the  Truxton  was 
by  far  the  happiest.  ...  It  was  from  the  Truxton 
just  a  few  months  before  that  he  had  gone  ashore  day 
after  day  for  a  fortnight  at  Adelaide ;  and  a  wee  woman 
five  3rears  older,  and  a  cycle  wiser,  had  invariably  been 
waiting  with  new  mysteries  in  her  house.  .  .  .  More 
over,  on  the  Truxton,  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
forecastle  galley — there  was  a  Chinese  for  that — and 
Captain  Carreras,  fancying  him  from  the  beginning,  had 
quartered  him  aft,  where,  except  on  days  like  this,  when 
Mother  Earth's  pneumatic  cushion  seemed  limp  and  flat 
tened,  there  was  a  breeze  to  hammock  in,  and  plenty  of 
candles  for  night  reading. 

Then  the  Captain  had  a  box  of  books,  the  marvel  of 
which  cannot  begin  to  be  described.  Andrew's  books 
were  but  five  or  six,  chosen  for  great  quantity  and  small 
bulk ;  tightly  and  toughly  bound  little  books  of  which  the 
Bible  was  first.  This  was  his  book  of  fairies,  his  ^Esop ; 
his  book  of  wanderings  and  story,  of  character  and  mys 
tery;  his  revelations,  the  source  of  his  ideality,  the  great 
expander  of  limitations ;  his  book  of  love  and  adventure 
and  war;  the  book  unjudgable  and  the  bed-rock  of  all 
literary  judgment.  He  knew  the  Bible  as  only  one  can 
who  has  played  with  it  as  a  child;  as  only  one  can  who 
has  found  it  alone  available,  when  an  insatiable  love  of 
print  has  swept  across  the  young  mind.  Nothing  could 
change  him  now ;  this  was  his  book  of  Fate. 

Except  for  those  vision-times  in  the  big  city,  Andrew 
could  not  remember  when  he  had  not  read  the  Bible,  nor 
did  he  remember  learning  to  read.  He  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  how  to  read  before  he  came  to  sea  at 
seven,  but  when  an  old  sailor  pointed  out  on  the  stern 
of  the  jolly-boat,  the  letters  that  formed  the  name  of  his 
first  ship — it  had  all  come  back  to  the  child ;  and  then  he 
found  his  first  Bible.  Slowly  conceiving  its  immensity, 
and  its  fullness  for  him — he  was  almost  lifted  from  his 


16  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

body  with  the  upward  winging  of  happiness.  It  was  his 
first  great  exaltation,  and  there  was  a  sacredness  about 
it  which  kept  him  from  telling  anybody.  .  .  .  And 
now  all  the  structures  of  the  great  Scripture  were  tenoned 
in  his  brain;  so  that  he  knew  the  frame  of  every  part, 
but  the  inner  meanings  of  more  and  more  marvellous 
dimension  seemed  inexhaustible.  Always  excepting  the 
great  Messianic  Figure — the  white  tower  of  his  con 
sciousness — he  loved  Saint  Paul  and  the  Forerunner 
best  among  the  men.  .  .  . 

There  was  also  a  big  book  in  the  Captain's  chest — 
Life  and  Death  on  the  Ocean — quarto-sized  and  printed 
in  agate.  It  was  filled  with  mutiny,  murder,  storm,  open- 
boat  cannibalism  and  agonies  of  thirst,  handspike  and  cut 
lass  inhumanities.  No  shark,  pirate  nor  man-killing  whale 
had  been  missed ;  no  ghastly  wreck,  derelict  nor  horrify 
ing  phantom  of  the  sea  had  escaped  the  nameless,  furious 
compiler.  For  four  days  and  nights,  Andrew  glared  con- 
sumingly  into  this  terrible  book,  and  when  he  came  to  the 
writhing  "  Finis,"  involved  in  a  sort  of  typhoon  tail 
piece — he  was  whipped,  and  never  could  bring  himself  to 
touch  the  book  again.  One  reading  had  burned  out  his 
entire  interest.  It  was  not  Life  nor  Death  nor  Ocean,  as 
he  had  seen  them  in  ten  solid  years  at  sea.  He  had  given 
the  book  his  every  emotion,  and  discovered  it  gave  noth 
ing  back ;  but  had  shaken,  terrified,  played  furious  taran 
tellas  upon  his  feelings — and  replenished  naught.  So  he 
turned  for  unguent  to  his  Book  of  Books.  Here  was  the 
strong  steady  light  in  contrast  to  which  the  other  was 
an  "  angled  spar."  True,  here  crawled  hate,  avarice, 
lust,  flesh  and  its  myriad  forms  of  death — not  in  their 
own  elemental  darkness — but  as  scurrying  vermin  forms 
suddenly  drenched  with  light.  .  .  .  There  were  other 
and  really  wonderful  books  in  Captain  Carreras'  chest — 
a  bashful  welcome  to  his  cabin,  and  such  eager  lend 
ing  from  the  Captain  himself ! 

This  had  become  a  pleasant  feature   in  the  young 


The  Great  Wind  Strikes  17 

man's  life — the  queer  kindly  heart  of  the  Captain.  There 
were  few  confidences  between  them,  but  a  fine  unspoken 
regard,  pleasing  and  permanent  like  the  Carreras  per 
fume.    Bedient's  desire  to  show  his  gratitude  and  admira 
tion  was  expressed  in  ways  that  could  not  possibly  shock 
the  Captain's  delicacy — in  the  small  excellences  of  his  art, 
for  instance.    To  say  that  the  boy  was  consummate  in  the 
!  limited   way   of  a   ship's   cook   does   not   overstate   his 
I  effectiveness.    He  did  unheard-of  things — even  fruit  and 
|  berry-pies,   from  preserves  two  years,  at  least,  remote 
|  from  vine  and  orchard.     The  two  mates  and  boatswain, 
!  who  also  messed  aft,  bolted  without  speech,  but  marvelled 
i   between  meals.    To  these  three,  the  tension  of  the  Cap- 
!   tain's  embarrassment  became  insupportable,  beyond  four 
or  five  minutes ;  so  that  Carreras,  a  discriminating,  though 
not  a  valiant  trencherman,  was  always  the  last  to  leave 
the  table. 

And  once  after  a  first  supper  at  sea  out  of  Singapore 
(there  had  been  a  green  salad,  a  fish  baked  whole,  a  cut 
of  ham  with  new  potatoes,  and  a  peach-preserve  tart), 
the  Captain  put  down  his  napkin  and  coffee-cup,  drank 
a  liqueur,  reached  for  his  pipe  and  handkerchief,  and 
suddenly  encountering  the  eyes  of  Andrew,  who  lit  a 
flare  for  him,  jerked  up  decisively,  as  one  encountering 
a  crisis.  His  face  became  hectic,  and  the  desperate  sen 
tence  he  uttered  was  almost  lost  in  the  frantic  clearing 
of  his  throat : 

"  You're  a  very  prime  and  wonderful  chap,  sir ! " 
Moreover,  Bedient's  arm  had  been  pressed  for  an 
instant  by  the  softest,  plumpest  hand  seaman  ever  car 
ried.  Coughing  alarmingly  in  the  first  fragrant  cloud 
from  his  Latakia  and  Virginia  leaf,  the  Captain  beat  forth 
to  recover  himself  on  deck. 

The  Truxton  was  now  six  days  out  of  Manila.    For 
the  past  thirty-six  hours,  she  might  as  well  have  been 
sunk  in  pitch,  for  any  progress  she  made.     .     .    .    The 
X          2 


18  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

ship's  bell  had  just  struck  four.  Bedient  had  finished 
clearing  away  tiffin  things,  and  stepped  on  deck.  The 
planking  was  like  the  galley-range  he  had  left,  and  the 
fresh  white  paint  of  the  three  boats  raised  in  blisters. 
The  sea  had  an  ugly  look,  yellow-green  and  dead,  save 
where  a  shark's  fin  knifed  the  surface.  The  crew  was 
lying  forward  under  the  awnings — a  fiend-tempered  outfit 
of  Laskars  and  Chinese.  Captain  Carreras  appeared  on 
deck  through  the  companion-way  still  farther  aft  and 
nodded  to  Bedient.  Then  both  men  looked  at  the  sky, 
which  was  brassy  above,  but  thickening  in  the  North.  It 
augmented  darkly  and  streakily — like  a  tub  of  water  into 
which  bluing  is  added  drop  by  drop.  ...  A  Chinese 
arose  and  tossed  a  handful  of  joss-tatters  into  the  still 
air.  And  now  the  voice  of  the  Captain  brought  the  rest 
of  the  crew  to  its  feet. 

The  China  Sea  can  generate  much  deviltry  to  a  square 
mile.  The  calm  of  death  and  the  burn  of  perdition  are 
in  its  bosom.  Cholera,  glutted  with  victims,  steals  to  his 
couch  in  the  China  Sea;  and  since  it  is  the  pool  of  a 
thousand  unclean  rivers,  the  sins  of  Asia  find  a  hiding- 
place  there.  It  has  ended  for  all  time  the  voyages  of 
brave  mariners  and  mighty  ships,  and  become  a  vault  for 
the  cargoes,  and  a  tomb  for  the  bones  of  men.  The  China 
Sea  fostered  the  pirate,  aided  him  in  his  bloody  ways,  and 
dragged  him  down,  riches  and  all.  Bed  of  disease,  secret- 
place  of  the  unclean,  and  graveyard  of  the  seas ;  yet, 
this  yellow-breasted  fiend,  ancient  in  devil-lore,  can 
smile  innocently  as  a  child  at  the  morning  sun,  and  be 
guile  the  torrid  stars  to  twinkling. 

It  was  in  this  black  heart  that  was  first  conceived  the 
Tai  Fung  (typhoon),  and  there  the  great  wind  has  its 
being  to-day,  resting  and  rising. 

The  Captain's  eyes  were  deep  in  the  North.  Bedient's 
soul  seemed  to  sense  the  awful  solemnity  on  the  face  of 
the  waters.  He  was  unable  afterward  to  describe  his 
varying  states  of  consciousness,  from  that  first  moment. 


The  Great  Wind  Strikes  19 

He  remembered  thinking  what  a  fine  little  man  the  Cap 
tain  was;  that  their  sailing  together  was  done.  .  .  . 
A  sympathetic  disorder  was  brewing  deep  down  on  the 
ocean  floor ;  the  water  now  had  a  charged  appearance,  and 
was  foul  as  the  roadstead  along  the  mouths  of  the  Godi- 
vari — a  thick,  whipped,  yeasty  look.  The  changes  were 
very  rapid.  Every  few  seconds,  Bedient  glanced  at  the 
Captain,  and  as  often  followed  his  gaze  into  the  churn 
ing,  blackening  North. 

A  chill  came  into  the  deathly  heat,  but  it  was  the  cold 
of  caverns,  not  of  the  vital  open.  The  heat  did  not  mix 
with  it,  but  passed  by  in  layers — a  novel  movement  of 
the  atmospheres.  Had  the  coolness  been  clean  and  nor 
mal,  the  sailors  would  have  sprung  to  the  rigging  to 
breathe  it,  and  to  bare  their  bodies  to  the  rain — after  two 
days  of  hell-pervading  calm — but  they  only  murmured 
now  and  fell  to  work. 

An  unearthly  glitter,  like  the  coloring  of  a  dream, 
wavered  in  the  East  and  West,  while  the  North  thickened 
and  the  South  lay  still  in  brilliant  expectation.  ...  In 
some  hall-way  when  Bedient  was  a  little  boy,  he  recalled 
a  light  like  this  of  the  West  and  East.  There  had  been  a 
long  narrow  pane  of  yellow-green  glass  over  the  front 
door.  The  light  used  to  come  through  that  in  the  after 
noon  and  fill  the  hall  and  frighten  him.  It  was  so  on 
deck  now. 

The  voices  of  the  sailors  had  that  same  unearthly 
quality  as  the  light — ineffectual,  remote.  Out  of  the 
hold  of  the  Truxton  came  a  ghostly  sigh.  Bedient 
couldn't  explain,  unless  it  was  some  new  and  mighty 
strain  upon  the  keel  and  ribs. 

A  moment  more  and  the  Destroyer  itself  was  visible 
in  the  changing  North.  It  was  sharp-lined — a  great 
wedge  of  absolute  night — and  from  it,  the  last  vestiges 
of  day  dropped  back  affrighted.  And  Bedient  heard  the 
voice  of  It;  all  that  the  human  ear  could  respond  to  of 
the  awful  dissonances  of  storm ;  yet  he  knew  there  were 


20  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

ranges  of  sound  above  and  below  the  human  register — 
for  they  awed  and  preyed  upon  his  soul.  .  .  .  He 
thought  of  some  papers  dear  to  him,  and  dropped  below 
for  them.  The  ship  smelled  old — as  if  the  life  were  gone 
from  her  timbers. 

Above  once  more,  he  saw  a  hideous  turmoil  in  the 
black  fabric — just  wind — an  avalanche  of  wind  that 
gouged  the  sea,  that  could  have  shaken  mountains.  .  .  . 
The  poor  little  Truxton  stared  into  the  End — a  puppy 
cowering  on  the  track  of  a  train. 

And  then  It  struck.  Bedient  was  sprawled  upon  the 
'deck.  Blood  broke  from  his  nostrils  and  ears ;  from  the 
little  veins  in  his  eyes  and  forehead.  Parts  of  his  body 
turned  black  afterward  from  the  mysterious  pressure  at 
this  moment.  He  felt  he  was  being  born  again  into  an 
other  world.  .  .  .  The  core  of  that  Thing  made  of 
wind  smashed  the  Truxton — a  smash  of  air.  It  was  like 
a  thick  sodden  cushion,  large  as  a  battle-ship — hurled  out 
of  the  North.  The  men  had  to  breathe  it — that  seething 
havoc  which  tried  to  twist  their  souls  free.  When  pas 
sages  to  the  lungs  were  opened,  the  dreadful  compres 
sion  of  the  air  crushed  through,  tearing  the  membrane 
of  throat  and  nostril. 

Water  now  came  over  the  ship  in  huge  tumbling 
walls.  Bedient  slid  over  the  deck,  like  a  bar  of  soap  from 
an  overturned  pail — clutching,  torn  loose,  clutching  again. 
.  .  .  Then  the  Thing  eased  to  a  common  hurricane 
such  as  men  know.  Gray  flicked  into  the  blackness,  a 
corpse-gray  sky,  and  the  ocean  seemed  shaken  in  a  bottle. 

Laskars  and  Chinese,  their  faces  and  hands  dripping 
red,  were  trying  to  get  a  boat  overside  when  Bedient  re 
gained  a  sort  of  consciousness.  The  Truxton  was  wal 
lowing  underfoot — as  one  in  the  saddle  feels  the  tendons 
of  his  mount  give  way  after  a  race.  The  Captain  helped 
a  huge  Chinese  to  hold  the  wheel.  The  sea  was  insane. 
.  .  .  They  got  the  boat  over  and  tumbled  in — a  dozen 
men.  A  big  sea  broke  them  and  the  little  boat  like  a 
basket  of  eggs  against  the  side  of  the  ship. 


The  Great  Wind  Strikes  21 

Another  boat  was  put  over  and  filled  with  men.  An 
other  sea  flattened  them  out  and  carried  the  stains  away 
on  the  surge.  There  were  only  nine  men  left  and  a 
small  boat  that  would  hold  but  seven.  Bedient  helped  to 
make  a  rigging  to  launch  this  over  the  stern.  He  saw  that 
the  thing  might  be  done  if  the  small  craft  were  not  broken 
in  two  against  the  rudder. 

The  Captain  made  no  movement,  had  no  thought  to 
join  these  strugglers.  He  was  alone  at  the  wheel,  which 
played  with  his  strength.  His  face  was  calm,  but  a  little 
dazed.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  other  than  to  go  down 
with  his  ship — the  old  tradition.  The  fatuousness  of  this 
appealed  suddenly  to  Bedient.  Carreras  was  his  friend — 
the  only  other  white  man  left.  The  two  mates  and  boat 
swain  had  tried  out  the  first  two  boats — eagerly. 

Bedient  ran  to  the  wheel,  tore  the  Captain  from  it 
and  carried  him  in  his  arms  toward  the  stern.  A  Chinese 
tried  to  knife  him,  but  the  man  died,  as  if  struck  by 
a  flying  bit  of  tackle.  Bedient  recaptured  the  Captain, 
who  during  the  brief  struggle  had  dumbly  turned  back 
to  the  wheel.  It  was  all  done  in  thirty  seconds ;  Carreras 
was  chucked  into  the  stern-seat  of  the  little  boat,  where 
he  belonged.  The  body  of  a  Laskar  cushioned  the  craft 
from  being  broken  against  the  rudder.  And  now  they 
were  seven. 

The  Truxton  had  been  broken  above  and  below.  She 
strangled — and  was  sucked  down.  Bedient  saw  her  stern 
fling  high  like  an  arm ;  saw  the  big  "  X"  in  the  centre  of 
the  name  in  the  whitish  light. 

He  remembered  hearing  that  typhoons  always  double 
on  their  tracks ;  and  that  a  ship  is  not  done  that  manages 
to  live  through  the  first  charge.  This  one  never  came 
back.  They  had  five  days  of  thirst  and  equatorial  sun. 
Two  men  died ;  two  fell  into  madness ;  Captain  Carreras, 
Andrew  Bedient  and  a  Chinese  made  Hong  Kong  without 
fatal  hurt. 

Captain  and  cook  took  passage  for  London.  The 
former  declared  he  was  through  with  the  sea,  except  as  a 


22  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

passenger.  In  twenty-five  years  he  had  never  encoun 
tered  serious  accident  before;  he  had  believed  himself 
accident-proof;  and  learning  differently,  did  not  propose 
to  lose  a  second  ship.  He  could  bring  himself  to  say 
very  little  about  Bedient's  action  of  the  last  moment  on 
deck,  but  he  asked  the  young  man  to  share  his  fortunes. 
Captain  Carreras  intended  to  stay  for  a  while  at  his 
mother's  house  in  Surrey,  but  realized  he  could  not  stand 
that  long.  .  .  .  Bedient  told  him  he  was  not  finished 
with  Asia  yet.  On  the  day  they  parted,  the  Captain  said 
there  would  be  a  letter  for  Bedient,  on  or  before  July  first 
of  every  year,  sent  care  the  "Marigold,  New  York." 
.  .  .  The  old  embarrassment  intervened  at  the  last 
moment — but  the  younger  man  did  not  miss  the  Captain's 
heart-break. 


SECOND  CHAPTER 

THE  PACK-TRAIN  IN  LUZON 

THE  first  letter  from  Captain  Carreras  was  a  real 
experience  for  Bedient.  Hours  were  needed  to  adjust  the 
memories  of  his  timid  old  friend  to  this  flowing  and 
affectionate  expression.  Captain  Carreras,  shut  in  a 
room  with  pen  and  white  paper,  loosed  his  pent  soul  in 
utterance.  A  fine  fragrant  soul  it  was,  and  all  its  best 
poured  out  to  his  memorable  boy. 

The  letter  had  been  written  in  England,  of  which  the 
Captain  was  already  weary.  He  must  have  more  space 
about,  he  confessed;  and  although  he  did  not  intend  to 
break  his  pledge  on  the  matter  of  navigating,  he  was 
soon  to  book  a  passage  for  the  Americas.  He  imagined 
there  was  the  proper  sort  of  island  for  him  somewhere 
in  those  waters.  He  had  always  had  a  weakness  for 
"  natives  and  hot  weather."  Bedient  was  asked  to  make 
his  need  known  in  any  case  of  misfortune  or  extremity. 
This  was  the  point  of  the  first  letter,  and  of  all  the 
letters.  .  .  . 

At  length  Captain  Carreras  settled  in  Equatoria,  a  big 
island  well  out  of  travel-lines  in  the  Caribbean.  The 
second  and  third  letters  made  it  even  plainer  that  the 
old  heart  valves  ached  for  the  young  man's  coming. 
A  mysterious  binding  of  the  two  seems  to  have  taken 
place  in  the  months  preceding  the  day  of  the  great  wind ; 
and  in  that  instant  of  stress  and  fury  the  Captain  realized 
his  supreme  human  relationship.  It  grew  strong  as 
only  can  a  bachelor's  love  for  a  man.  Indeed,  Carreras 
was  probably  the  first  to  discover  in  Andrew  Bedient 
a  something  different,  which  Bedient  himself  was  yet  far 
from  realizing.  .  .  .  The  latter  wished  that  the  let 
ters  from  the  West  Indies  would  not  always  revert  to  the 
strength  of  his  hands.  It  brought  up  a  memory  of  the 

23 


24  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

despoiled  face  of  the  Chinese  with  the  knife,  and  of  the 
inert  figure  afterward  on  the  planking.  .  .  .  Bedient 
knew  that  sometime  he  would  go  to  find  his  friend. 

*  Three  years  after  the  great  wind,  the  excitement  in 
Manila  called  Bedient  across  the  China  Sea.  There  had 
been  a  coup  of  the  American  fleet,  and  soldiers  from 
the  States  were  on  the  way  to  the  Islands.  ...  In 
the  following  weeks,  there  was  much  to  do  and  observe 
around  that  low  large  city  of  Luzon,  the  lights  of  which 
Andrew  had  seen  many  times  at  night  from  the  harbor 
and  the  passage — lights  which  seemed  to  lie  upon  still 
waters.  When  Pack-train  Thirteen  finally  took  the 
field  from  the  big  corral,  to  carry  grub  and  ammunition 
to  the  moving  forces  and  the  few  outstanding  garrisons, 
Bedient  had  already  been  tried  out  and  found  excellent 
as  cook  of  the  outfit. 

It  is  to  be  doubted  if  history  furnishes  a  more  pic 
turesque  service  than  that  which  fell  to  Luzon  pack- 
trains  throughout  the  following  two  years.  It  was  like 
Indian  fighting,  but  more  compact,  rapid  and  surprising. 
The  actions  were  small  enough  to  be  seen  entire ;  they 
fell  clean-cut  into  pictures  and  were  instantly  compre 
hensive.  As  the  typhoon  confirmed  Carreras,  this  Luzon 
service  brought  to  Bedient  an  important  relation — his  first 
real  friendship  with  a  boy  of  his  own  age. 

In  the  fall  of  1899,  David  Cairns,  the  youngest  of  the 
American  war-correspondents,  stood  hungry  and  desolate 
in  the  plaza  of  the  little  town  of  Alphonso,  two  days' 
cavalry  march  below  Manila — when  Pack-train  Thirteen 
arrived  with  provisions.  The  mules  swung  in  with  droop 
ing  heads  and  lolling  tongues,  under  three-hundred-pound 
packs.  The  roars  of  Healy,  the  boss-packer,  filled  the 
dome  of  sky  where  a  young  moon  was  rising  in  a  twilight 
of  heavenly  blue — dusk  of  the  gods,  indeed.  A  battalion 
of  infantry  in  Alphonso  had  been  hungry  for  three  days — 
so  the  Train  had  come  swiftly,  ten  hours  on  the  trail, 
and  forced  going.  It  was  a  volunteer  infantry  outfit,  and 


The  Pack-Train  in  Luzon  25 

apt  to  be  a  bit  lawless  in  the  sight  of  food.  Some  of  the 
men  began  pulling  at  the  packs.  Healy  and  his  iron- 
handed,  vitriol-tongued  crew  beat  them  back  with  the 
ferocity  of  devils — and  had  the  battalion  cowed  and 
whimpering,  before  the  officers  withdrew  the  men  and 
arranged  an  orderly  issue  of  rations. 

Meanwhile,  David  Cairns  watched  the  tall,  young 
cook,  lean,  tanned,  and  with  an  ugly  triangle  of  fresh 
sunburn  under  his  left  shoulder-blade,  where  his  shirt 
had  been  torn  with  a  thorn  that  day.  He  loosed  the 
aparejos  and  manias,  containing  the  kitchen-kit;  almost 
magically  a  fire  was  started.  Water  was  heating  a 
moment  later  and  slabs  of  bacon  began  to  writhe.  .  .  . 
Savage  as  he  was  from  hunger,  it  was  marvellously  color 
ful  to  the  fresh-eyed  Cairns — his  first  view  of  a  pack- 
train.  The  mules,  relieved  of  their  burdens,  were  rolling 
on  the  dusty  turf.  Thirty  mountain-miles,  under  packs 
one-third  their  own  weight,  and  through  the  pressure  of 
a  Luzon  day;  dry,  empty,  caked  with  sweat-salt — yet 
there  were  not  a  few  of  those  gritty  beasts  that  went  into 
the  air  squealing,  and  launched  a  hind-foot  at  the  nearest 
rib  or  the  nearest  star,  or  pressed  close  to  muzzle  the 
bell-mare — after  the  restoring  roll.  Then,  some  of  the 
packers  drove  them  down  to  water,  while  others  made 
ready  the  forage  and  grain-bags ;  infantry  fires  were  lit ; 
the  provisions  turned  over;  detachments  came  meekly 
forward  for  rations,  and  the  lifting  aroma  of  coffee  en 
chanted  the  warm  winds.  Cairns  remembered  all  this 
when  the  sharp  profile  of  battle-fronts  grew  dull  in 
memory. 

And  now  Bedient  had  three  great  pans  of  bacon  siz 
zling,  a  young  mountain  of  brown  sugar  piled  upon  a 
poncho,  a  big  can  of  hard-tack  broken  open,  and  the  coffee 
had  come  to  boil  under  his  hands — three  gallons  at  least. 
The  watered  mules  had  to  do  just  so  much  kicking,  so 
much  braying  at  the  young  moon ;  had  to  be  assured  just 
so  often,  through  their  queer  communications,  that  the 


26  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

bell-mare  was  still  in  the  land  of  picket-line — before  nose 
bags  were  fastened.  Then,  with  all  the  pack  rigging  in 
neat  piles  before  the  picket-line,  and  the  untouched  stores 
covered  and  piled,  the  packers  came  in  with  their  mess- 
tins  and  coffee-cups. 

Bedient  had  seen  the  hunger  in  the  eyes  of  David 
Cairns,  the  empty  haversack,  and  noted  that  he  was 
neither  officer  nor  enlisted  man.  Bedient  had  plenty  of 
water,  but  with  a  smile  he  offered  the  other  a  pail  and 
pointed  to  the  stream.  This  was  a  pleasantry  for  the 
eyes  of  Boss  Healy.  Cairns  appeared  presently  through 
the  infantry,  and  around  the  end  of  the  picket-line — a 
correspondent  serving  mule-riders  with  all  the  enthusiasm 
of  a  pitifully-tightened  belt.  .  .  .  The  packers  were 
at  their  pipes  and  cigarettes  and  were  spreading  blanket- 
rolls,  and  groups  of  "  chucked  "  infantry  had  warmed 
into  singing — when  the  two  boys  sat  down  to  supper. 
The  cook  said: 

"  I'm  Andrew  Bedient — and  are  you  a  correspon 
dent?" 

"  A  cub — and  pretty  nearly  a  starved  cub.  .  .  . 
There's  been  nothing  to  buy,  you  know,  and  this  outfit 
was  hung  up  here  grubless.  The  trails  aren't  open 
enough  to  travel  alone.  Some  of  the  officers  might  have 
taken  me  in " 

"  We  have  plenty.  The  packers  hadn't  had  their 
coffee  when  I  gave  you  the  pail,"  Bedient  whispered. 
"  They  hate  the  doughboys.  I  wanted  them  to  see  you 
weren't  enlisted.  ...  I  should  say  the  trails  weren't 
open  for  travelling  alone.  The  niggers  peppered  at  us  all 
day.  Healy  rides  through  anything — says  we  make  better 
time  when  the  natives  are  shooting " 

"  I  saw  how  he  went  through  the  bunch  that  started 
to  help  you  unpack,"  Cairns  said  laughing. 

.  .  .  Theirs  was  a  quick  love  for  each  other.  They 
had  not  known  how  lonely  their  hearts  were,  until  they 
encountered  this  fine  mutual  attraction.  Together  they 


The  Pack-Train  in  Luzon  27 

cleaned  up  the  supper  things,  and  spread  their  blankets 
side  by  side.  .  .  .  Later,  when  only  the  infantry 
sentries  were  awake,  and  the  packers'  running  guard 
(and  a  little  apart,  the  interminable  glow  from  Healy's 
cigarettes),  the  two  were  still  whispering,  though  the  day 
had  been  terrific  in  physical  expenditure.  So  aroused  and 
gladdened  by  each  other  were  they,  that  intimate  matters 
poured  forth  in  the  fine  way  youths  have,  before  the  con 
trol  and  concealment  is  put  on.  Grown  men  imprison 
each  other.  .  .  .  Their  low  tones  trembled  with  emo 
tion  while  the  night  whitened  with  stars.  Cairns  wished 
that  something  of  terror  or  intensity  might  happen.  He 
hated  a  knife  to  the  very  pith  of  his  life,  but  now  he 
would  have  welcomed  a  passage  of  steel  in  the  dark — for 
a  chance  to  defend  the  other. 

And  the  cook  had  that  absolute,  laughing  sort  of  cour 
age.  Cairns  divined  this — a  courage  so  sure  of  itself  that 
no  boastful  explanations  were  needed.  They  talked  about 
men,  books,  their  yearnings,  the  recent  fights.  Cairns 
was  enthralled  and  mystified.  Bedient  did  not  seem  to 
hope  for  great  things  in  a  worldly  way,  while  the  corre 
spondent  was  driven  daily  by  ambition  and  its  self-dreams. 
Life  apparently  had  shown  this  cook  day  by  day  what 
was  wisest  and  easiest  to  do — the  ways  of  little  resistance. 
He  appeared  content  to  go  on  so;  and  this  challenged 
Cairns  to  explain  what  he  meant  to  do  with  the  next  few 
years.  Bedient  heard  this  with  fine  interest,  but  no  quick 
ening.  Cairns  was  insatiable  for  details  of  a  life  that  had 
been  spent  in  Asia  and  upon  ships  of  the  Eastern  seas. 
Everything  that  Bedient  said  had  a  shining  exterior  of 
mystery  to  the  American.  His  vague  memories  of  New 
York;  the  water-fronts  that  had  since  called  his  steps; 
different  ships  and  captains;  the  men  about  him,  Healy 
and  the  packers;  his  entire  detachment  from  relatives, 
and  his  easy  familiarity  with  the  great  unhasting  years — 
all  these  formed  into  a  luminous  envelope,  containing  the 
new  friend. 


28  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  I  was  always  fed  somehow,"  Bedient  whispered, 
as  he  told  about  the  dim  little  lad  that  was  himself. 
"  There  was  always  some  one  good  to  me.  I  'member 
one  old  sailor  with  rings  in  his  ears " 

The  David  Cairns  of  twenty  likewise  gave  all  gladly. 
Queerly  enough,  he  found  the  other  especially  fascinated 
in  anything  he  told  of  his  mother  and  sisters,  and  the 
life  at  home  in  New  York,  made  easy  by  the  infinite  little 
cushions  of  wealth  and  culture.  A  youth  eight  months 
away  on  his  first  campaign  can  talk  with  power  on  these 
matters.  Here  Cairns  was  wonderful  and  authoritative 
and  elect  to  Bedient — particularly  in  the  possession  of  a 
living,  breathing  Mother.  This  filled  the  cup  of  dreams 
in  a  way  that  the  dominant  exterior  matters  of  the  young 
correspondent's  mind — newspaper  beats,  New  York 
honors,  great  war  stories,  and  a  writer's  name — could 
never  have  done.  Bedient  was  clearly  an  inveterate  ideal 
ist.  His  dreams  were  strangely  lustrous,  but  distant,  not 
to  be  touched  nor  handled — an  impersonal  kind  of  dream 
ing.  Cairns  was  not  so  astonished  that  the  other  had 
been  of  uncommon  quality  in  the  beginning,  but  that  his 
life  had  not  made  him  common  was  a  miracle,  no  less. 

Elements  of  glory  were  in  this  life  he  had  lived,  but 
those  who  belonged  to  it,  whom  Cairns  had  observed 
heretofore,  were  thick-skinned ;  men  of  unlit  conscious 
ness  and  hardened  hearts,  gruelling  companions  to  whom 
there  was  no  deadly  sin  but  physical  cowardice,  and  only 
muscular  virtues.  Bedient  was  not  of  these,  neither  in 
body,  mind  nor  memory,  aspiration,  language  nor  manner. 
And  yet  they  believed  in  him,  accepted  him  in  a  queer, 
tentative,  subdued  fashion ;  and  he  spoke  to  them  warmly, 
and  of  them  with  affection.  All  this  needed  a  deeper  and 
more  mellowed  mind  than  Cairns'  to  comprehend ;  though 
it  challenged  him  from  the  first  moment  in  that  swiftly- 
darkening  night.  "  It's  too  good  to  be  true,"  was  his 
oft-recurring  sentence.  .  .  .  Though  apart,  Bedient 
was  not  scoffed.  Could  it  be  that  he  was  so  finished 


The  Pack-Train  in  Luzon  29 

as  a  cook,  as  a  friend,  as  an  indefatigable — so  rhythmi 
cally  superior,  that  the  packers  took  no  offense  at  his 
aloofness?  Certainly,  Bedient  felt  no  necessity  of  im 
pressing  his  values  upon  his  companions,  as  do  those 
who  have  come  but  a  little  way  in  culture. 

Somehow,  Alphonso  smelled  of  roses  that  night,  as 
the  two  lay  together  in  that  little  plaza,  where  the  mules 
were  picketed  and  the  satisfied  infantry  slept.  In  the 
jungle  (which  seemed  very  close  in  the  moonlight), 
bamboo  stalks  creaked  soothingly  and  stroked  each  other 
in  the  soft  night  winds,  and  the  zenith  sky  boiled  with 
millions  of  white-hot  worlds.  .  .  .  Are  not  the  best 
dreams  of  this  earth  to  be  heard  from  two  rare  boys  whis 
pering  in  the  night?  They  have  not  been  frightened  by 
their  first  real  failure,  and  the  latest,  most  delicate  bloom 
of  the  race  has  not  yet  been  brushed  from  their  thoughts. 
Curled  within  their  minds,  like  an  endless  scroll,  are  the 
marvellous  scriptures  of  millenniums,  and  yet  their  brain- 
surfaces  are  fresh  for  earth's  newest  concept.  .  .  . 
What  are  they  whispering?  Their  voices  falter  with  emo 
tion  over  vague  bits  of  dreaming.  They  ask  no  greater 
stimulus  to  fly  to  the  uttermost  bounds  of  their  limitations 
— than  each  other  and  the  night.  Reason  dawns  upon 
their  stammered  expressions,  and  farther  they  fly — 
thrilling  like  young  birds,  when  their  wings  for  the  first 
time  catch  the  sustaining  cushions  of  air.  .  .  .  These 
are  the  vessels  of  the  future — seals  yet  unbroken. 


THIRD    CHAPTER 

RED  PIGMENT  OF  SERVICE 

BEDIENT  explained  that  he  had  come  to  the  Philippines 
pleased  with  the  thought  of  seeing  his  own  people,  the 
Americans.  He  realized  that  he  was  not  seeing  them  at 
their  best  under  martial  law.  The  pair  exchanged  narra 
tives  of  action.  Cairns  pictured  his  first  time  under  fire, 
ending : 

"...  First  you  see  the  smoke ;  then  you  hear  the 
bullets — then  the  sound  of  the  guns  last " 

"  Yes,  that's  the  order,"  said  Bedient,  who  laughed 
softly,  and  presently  was  telling  of  a  recent  and  terrible 
baptism  of  fire.  The  Pack-train  had  spurred  to  the  rescue 
of  a  small  party  of  sick  and  footsore,  making  their  way 
to  garrison. 

"  Why  that  was  the  Pony  Pack  Massacre !  "  Cairns 
exclaimed.  "  I  heard  about  it — one  of  the  worst  affairs 
we've  had  over  here — and  you  saw  it  ?  " 

"I  wish  I  hadn't,"  Bedient  answered.  "The  little 
party  of  Americans  were  down  when  I  first  saw  them. 
Six  or  seven  of  the  sixteen  were  dead ;  nearly  all  the  rest 
wounded.  The  natives  had  fired  from  three  sides — and 
would  have  finished  their  work  with  knives,  except  for 
Thirteen.  The  American  lieutenant  in  charge  was  clear- 
grained.  He  had  been  trying  to  withdraw  toward  the 
town  and  carry  his  wounded — think  of  that.  There  were 
not  two  others  besides  himself  unscathed.  I'll  never  for 
get  him — striding  up  and  down  praying  and  cursing — his 
first  fight,  you  know — and  his  boy's  voice — '  Be  cock  sure 
they're  dead,  fellows,  before  you  leave  'em  behind  for 
the  bolos !  .  .  .  For  the  love  of  God  don't  leave  your 
bunkies  behind  for  the  butchers ! ' 

"  In  a  half  minute,  I  saw  it  all — what  a  thing  for 
white  men  to  be  gathered  for  slaughter  on  a  trail  over 

30 


Red  Pigment  of  Service  31 

here.  The  boys  knew  it — and  fought  horribly  against 
it.  .  .  ." 

Cairns  started  to  say  something  about  this,  but  the 
words  didn't  come  quickly  enough,  and  Bedient  went  on : 

"  There  is  a  picture  of  that  day  which  always  means 
war  to  me.  The  soldier  was  hit  mortally  just  as  I  got 
to  him,  but  didn't  fall  at  once,  as  one  does  when  the  spine 
or  brain  is  touched.  As  my  hands  went  out  to  him,  he  got 
it  again  and  lost  his  legs,  as  if  they  were  shot  from  under. 
His  body,  you  see,  fell  the  length  of  his  legs.  This  second 
bullet  was  a  Remington  slug  that  shattered  his  hip.  He 
had  a  full  canteen  strung  over  his  shoulder,  infantry 
fashion.  The  bullet  that  dropped  him  sitting  on  the 
trail,  had  gone  through  this  to  his  hip.  The  canteen 
was  spurting  water.  Mind  you,  it  was  the  other  wound 
that  was  killing  him.  There  he  sat  dying  on  the  road. 
I  felt  like  dying  for  him — felt  that  I  couldn't  bear  it  if  it 
took  long.  He  was  in  my  arms — and  the  canteen  was 
emptying  itself  through  the  bullet-holes.  Then  he  seemed 
to  hear  the  water  flopping  out  on  the  sand,  and  wriggled 
around  to  look  at  his  hip,  and  I  heard  him  mutter  thickly : 
'  Look — look  at  the  b-bl-blood  run ! '  " 

Cairns  felt  that  his  companion  suffered  in  this  telling 
— that  behind  the  dark,  the  face  close  to  his  was  deadly 
pale.  He  couldn't  quite  understand  the  depths  of  Be- 
dient's  horror.  It  was  war.  All  America  was  behind  it. 
One  boy  can't  stand  up  against  his  nation.  It  was  all 
very  queer.  He  felt  that  Bedient  had  a  crystal  gameness, 
but  here  was  the  sensitiveness  of  a  girl.  Cairns  thought 
of  the  heroes  he  had  read  of  who  were  brave  as  a  lion  and 
gentle  as  a  woman,  and  these  memories  helped  him  now 
to  grasp  his  companion's  point  of  view.  .  .  .  Hesi 
tating,  Bedient  finished : 

"  You  know,  to  me  all  else  was  hushed  when  I  felt 
that  boy  in  my  arms.  It  was  like  a  shouting  and  laughing 
suddenly  ceased — as  when  a  company  of  boys  discover 
that  one  of  their  playmates  is  terribly  hurt.  ...  I 


32  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

imagine  it  would  be  like  that — the  sudden  silence  and 
sickness.  It  was  all  so  unnecessary.  And  that  boy's 
mother — he  should  have  been  in  her  arms,  not  mine. 
Poor  little  chap,  he  was  all  pimpled  from  beans,  which 
are  poison  to  some  people.  He  shouldn't  have  been  hurt 
like  that.  .  .  .  There  was  another  who  had  needed 
but  one  shot.  The  Remington  had  gone  into  his  throat 
in  front  the  size  of  a  lead-pencil — and  come  out  behind 
like  a  tea-cup.  The  natives  had  filed  the  tip  of  the  lead, 
so  that  it  accumulated  destruction  in  the  ugly  way.  It 
was  like  some  one  putting  a  stone  in  a  snow-ball — so 
vicious.  You  can't  blame  the  natives — but  the  war- 
game " 

Boss  Healy  growled  at  them  to  go  to  sleep. 

Cairns  remained  with  the  Pack-train  after  that  until 
the  Rains.  Never  did  a  boy  have  more  to  write  about 
in  three  months.  Every  phase  and  angle  of  that  service, 
now  half-forgotten,  unfolded  for  his  eyes.  And  the  im 
possible  theme  running  through  it  all,  was  the  carabao — 
the  great  horned  sponge  that  pulls  vastly  like  an  elephant 
and  dies  easily  like  a  rabbit — when  the  water  is  out. 
.  .  .  They  make  no  noise  about  their  dying,  these 
mountains  of  flesh,  merely  droop  farther  and  farther 
forward  against  the  yoke,  when  their  skins  crack  from 
dryness;  the  whites  of  their  eyes  become  wider  and 
wider — until  they  lay  their  tongues  upon  the  sand.  The 
Chinese  call  them  "  cow-cows "  and  understand  them 
better  than  the  Tagals,  as  they  understand  better  the  rice 
and  the  paddies. 

Once  Thirteen  was  yanked  out  of  Healy's  hand — as  no 
volley  of  native  shots  had  ever  disordered.  The  mules 
were  in  a  gorge  trotting  into  the  town  of  Indang.  Natives 
in  the  high  places  about,  were  waiting  for  the  Train  to 
debouch  upon  the  river-bank — so  as  to  take  a  few  shots 
at  the  outfit.  Every  one  expected  this,  but  just  as  the 
Train  broke  out  of  the  gorge  into  the  open,  at  the  edge 


Red  Pigment  of  Service  33 

of  the  river-bed — there  was  a  great  sucking  transfigura 
tion  from  the  shallows,  a  hideous  sort  of  giving  birth  from 
the  mud. 

It  was  just  a  soaked  carabao  rising  from  his  deep 
wallow  in  the  stream,  but  that  she-devil,  the  gray  bell- 
mare,  tried  to  climb  the  cliffs  about  it.  The  mules  felt 
her  panic,  as  if  an  electrode  ran  from  her  to  the  quick 
of  every  hide  of  them.  When  the  fragments  of  the  Train 
were  finally  gathered  together  in  Indang,  they  formed  an 
undone,  hysterical  mess.  The  packers  were  too  tired  to 
eat,  but  sat  around  dazed,  softly  cursing,  and  smoking 
cigarettes ;  as  they  did  one  day  after  a  big  fight,  in  which 
one  of  their  number,  Jimmy  the  Tough,  was  shot  through 
the  brain.  For  days  the  mules  were  nervous  over  the 
delicate  condition  of  the  bell. 

Study  of  Andrew  Bedient  and  weeks  in  which  he 
learned,  past  the  waver  of  a  doubt,  that  his  friend  was 
knit  with  a  glistening  and  imperishable  fabric  of  courage, 
brought  David  Cairns  to  that  high  astonishing  point, 
where  he  could  say  impatiently,  "  Rot !  " — as  his  former 
ideals  of  manhood  rose  to  mind.  It  was  good  for  him  to 
get  this  so  young.  .  .  .  One  morning  something 
went  wrong  with  Benton,  the  farrier.  He  had  been  silent 
for  days.  Bedient  had  sensed  some  trouble  in  the  little 
man's  heart,  and  had  often  left  Cairns  to  ride  with  him. 
Then  came  the  evening  when  the  farrier  was  missed.  It 
was  in  the  mountains  near  Naig.  At  length,  just  as  the 
sun  went  down,  the  Train  saw  him  gain  a  high  cliff — and 
stand  there  for  a  moment  against  the  red  sky.  Bedient 
reached  over  and  gripped  Cairns'  arm.  Turning,  the 
latter  saw  that  his  friend's  eyes  were  closed.  The  re 
markable  thing  was  that  not  one  of  the  packers  called  to 
Benton — but  all  observed  the  lean  tough  little  figure  of 
one  of  the  neatest  men  that  ever  lived  afield — regarded 
in  silence  the  hard  handsome  profile.  Finally  Benton 
drew  out  his  pistol  and  looked  at  it,  as  if  to  see  that  the 
oil  had  kept  out  the  dust  from  the  hard  day  on  the  trail. 
3 


34  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Then  he  looked  into  the  muzzle  and  fired — going  over  the 
cliff,  as  he  had  intended,  and  burying  himself. 

"  Some  awful  inner  hunger,"  Bedient  whispered  hours 
afterward.  "  You  see,  he  couldn't  talk — as  you  and  I 
do.  .  .  .  I've  noticed  it  so  long — that  these  men  can't 
talk  to  one  another — only  swear  and  joke." 

Early  the  next  morning  Cairns  awoke,  doubtless  miss 
ing  Bedient  subconsciously.  It  was  in  the  first  gray,  an 
hour  before  Healy  kicked  his  outfit  awake.  Bedient  was 
back  in  camp  in  time  to  start  breakfast,  having  made  a 
big  detour  to  reach  the  base  of  the  gorge.  It  wasn't  a 
thing  to  speak  about,  but  he  had  made  a  pilgrimage 
to  the  pit  where  the  farrier  had  fallen.  .  .  .  Another 
time,  Cairns  awoke  in  the  same  way.  It  was  the  absence 
of  Bedient,  not  the  actual  leaving,  that  aroused  him. 
The  Train  had  camped  in  a  little  nameless  town.  Cairns, 
this  time,  found  his  companion  playing  with  a  child,  at 
the  doorway  of  one  of  the  shacks  of  the  village.  Inside, 
was  an  old  man  sick  with  beri-beri — swollen,  features 
erased,  unconscious ;  and  an  old  woman  who  also  had  been 
too  weak  to  flee  before  the  American  party.  These  two, 
the  child,  and  a  few  pariah  dogs  were  all  that  remained. 
You  could  have  put  the  tiny  one  in  a  haversack  comfort 
ably.  A  poor  little  mongrel  head  that  shone  bare  and 
scabby  in  places,  but  big  black  eyes,  full  of  puzzles  and 
wonderings ;  and  upon  his  arms  and  legs,  those  deep 
humors  which  come  from  scratching  in  the  night.  The 
infant  sat  upon  a  banana  leaf — brown  and  naked  and 
wonderful  as  possible — and  Bedient  knelt  before  him 
smiling  happily,  and  feeding  hard-tack  that  had  been 
softened  in  bacon-gravy. 

Cairns  saw  the  old  woman's  face.  It  was  sullen,  hag 
gard.  The  eyes  were  no  strangers  to  hunger  nor  hatred. 
She  watched  the  two  Americans,  as  might  a  crippled 
tigress,  that  had  learned  at  last  how  weak  was 
her  fury  against  chains.  He  saw  that  same  look  many 
times  afterward  in  the  eyes  of  these  women  of  the  river- 


Red  Pigment  of  Service  35 

banks — as  the  white  troops  moved  past.  There  was  not 
even  a  sex-interest  to  complicate  their  hatred. 

One  day  Thirteen  overtook  a  big  infantry  column 
making  a  wide  ford  in  the  river  before  Bamban.  It  was 
high  noon,  but  they  found  during  the  hold-up,  a  bit  of 
shade  and  breeze  on  a  commanding  hill.  Cairns  and 
Bedient  kicked  off  their  shoes  into  the  tall,  moist  grass, 
and  luxuriously  poked  their  feet  into  the  coolness ;  and 
presently  they  were  watching  unfold  a  really  pretty  bit  of 
action. 

A  thin  glittering  cloud  of  smoke  across  the  river 
showed  where  the  trenches  of  the  natives  were.  The 
Americans  in  the  river,  held  their  rifles  and  ammuni 
tion-belts  high,  and  wriggled  their  hips  against  the  but 
ting  force  of  the  stream.  It  all  became  very  business 
like.  The  battalion  first  across,  set  out  to  flank  the  native 
works ;  a  rapid-fire  gun  started  to  boom  from  an  opposite 
eminence,  and  the  infantry  took  to  firing  at  the  emptying 
trenches.  The  Tagals  were  poked  out  of  their  positions, 
and  in  a  sure  leisurely  way  that  held  the  essence  of 
attraction. 

After  all,  it  was  less  the  actual  bits  of  fighting  that 
cleared  into  memories  of  permanence,  than  certain  subtle 
ties  of  the  campaign:  a  particular  instant  of  one  swift 
twilight,  as  in  the  plaza  at  Alphonso;  a  certain  moment 
of  a  furious  mid-day,  when  the  sun  was  a  python  pressure, 
so  that  the  scalp  prickled  with  the  congested  blood  in  the 
brain,  and  men  lifted  their  hats  an  inch  or  two  as  they 
rode,  preserving  the  shade,  but  permitting  the  air  to 
circulate;  some  guttural  curse  from  a  packer  who  could 
not  lift  his  voice  in  the  heat,  nor  think,  but  only  curse, 
and  grin  in  sickly  fashion.  .  .  . 

There  were  moments,  reminders  of  which  awoke 
Cairns  in  a  sweat  for  many  nights  afterward:  One  day 
when  he  was  badly  in  need  of  a  fresh  mount,  he  saw 
just  ahead  of  the  Train — a  perfect  little  sorrel  stallion 
fastened  to  the  edge  of  the  trail.  He  dismounted  to 


36  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

change  saddles.  The  Train  was  straggling  along  under 
an  occasional  fire.  Cairns  found  that  the  pony  was  held 
by  a  tough  wire,  that  led  into  the  jungle.  Such  was  the 
braiding  at  the  throat,  that  only  a  sapper  could  have 
handled  it.  The  correspondent  started  to  follow  the  wire 
into  the  thicket — when  Bedient  caught  him  by  the  shoul 
der  and  half-lifted  him  from  the  ground.  There  was 
strength  in  that  slim  tanned  hand  that  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  ordinary  force  of  men.  The  cook  smiled, 
but  disdained  explanation.  It  all  dawned  upon  Cairns 
a  second  later.  He  would  have  followed  the  wire  to  the 
end  in  the  jungle — where  the  trap  of  knives  would  spring. 
.  .  .  The  bolo-men  need  but  a  moment.  ...  It 
was  only  two  or  three  days  later  that  one  of  the  packers 
dropped  behind  the  Train  to  tighten  a  cinch.  No  one 
had  noticed,  and  Thirteen  filed  on. 

"  For  Christ's  sake — don't !  "  they  heard  from  behind. 

Wheeling,  they  found  that  the  man  had  seen  the  end — 
as  he  had  called  out  in  that  horrible  echoing  voice.  He 
was  not  more  than  fifty  yards  behind  the  rear  packer — 
and  pinned  to  the  trail.  A  bolo  had  been  hammered  with 
a  stone — through  the  upper  lip  and  the  base  of  the  brain, 
two  or  three  inches  into  the  earth.  .  .  .  He  had 
been  butchered  besides. 

At  the  end  of  a  terrific  ten  days,  Thirteen  was  crawl 
ing  at  nightfall  into  the  large  garrison  at  Lipa.  Men 
and  mules  had  been  lost  in  the  recent  gruelling  service. 
The  trails  and  the  miles  had  been  long  and  hard ;  much 
hunger  and  thirst,  and  there  was  hell  in  the  hearts  of 
men  this  night.  Even  Bedient  was  shaking  with  fatigue ; 
and  Cairns  beside  him,  felt  that  there  wasn't  the  brain  of 
a  babe  in  his  skull.  His  saddle  seemed  filled  with  spikes. 
His  spur  was  gone,  and  for  hours  he  had  kept  his  half- 
dead,  lolling-tongued  pony  on  the  way,  by  frequent  jab 
bing  from  a  broken  lead-pencil.  .  .  .  And  here  was 
Lipa  at  last,  the  second  Luzon  town,  and  a  corral  for  the 
mules.  As  they  passed  a  nipa-shack,  at  the  outer  edge,  a 
sound  of  music  came  softly  forth.  Some  native  was  play- 


Red  Pigment  of  Service  37 

ing  one  of  the  queer  Filipino  mandolins.  The  Train 
pushed  on,  without  Cairns  and  Bedient.  All  the  famine 
and  foulness  and  fever  lifted  from  these  two.  They 
forgot  blood  and  pain  and  glaring  suns.  The  early  stars 
changed  to  lily-gardens,  vast  and  white  and  beautiful, 
and  their  eyes  dulled  with  dreams. 

They  did  not  guess,  at  least  Cairns  did  not,  that  the 
low  music  brought  tears  that  night — because  they  were 
in  dreadful  need  of  it,  because  they  were  filled  with  inner 
agony  for  something  beautiful,  because  they  had  been 
spiritually  starved.  And  all  the  riding  hard,  shooting 
true  and  dying  game — those  poor  ethics  of  the  open — 
had  not  brought  a  crumb,  not  a  crumb,  of  the  real  bread 
of  life.  Nor  could  mountains  of  mere  energy  nor  ice 
bergs  of  sheer  nerve!  In  needing  the  bread  of  life — 
they  were  different  from  the  others,  and  so  they  lingered, 
unable  to  speak,  while  a  poor  little  Tagal — "  one  of  the 
niggers " — all  unconsciously  played.  "  Surely,"  they 
thought,  "  his  soul  is  no  dead,  dark  thing  when  he  can 
play  like  that." 

.  .  .  So  often,  Bedient  watched  admiringly  while 
Cairns  wrote.  The  correspondent  didn't  know  it,  but  he 
was  bringing  a  good  temporal  fame  to  Thirteen  and  him 
self  in  these  nights.  He  had  a  boy's  energy  and  senti 
ment;  also  a  story  to  tell  for  every  ride  and  wound  and 
shot  in  the  dark.  The  States  were  attuned  to  boyish 
things,  as  a  country  always  is  in  war,  and  a  boy  was 
better  than  a  man  for  the  work.  .  .  .  Often  Bedient 
would  bring  him  a  cup  of  coffee  and  arrange  a  blanket 
to  keep  the  wind  from  the  sputtering  candles.  The  two 
bunks  were  invariably  spread  together ;  and  Bedient  was 
ever  ready  for  a  talk  in  the  dark,  when  Cairns'  brain 
dulled  and  refused  to  be  driven  to  further  work,  even 
under  the  whip  of  bitter-black  coffee.  .  .  .  They 
were  never  to  forget  these  passionate  nights — the  mules, 
the  mountains,  nor  the  changing  moon.  Cairns  was 
tampering  with  a  drug  that  is  hard  to  give  up,  in  absorb- 


38  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

ing  the  odor  and  color  of  the  oriental  tropics.  It  filled 
his  blood,  and  though,  at  the  time,  its  magic  was  lost 
somewhat  in  the  great  loneliness  for  the  States,  and  his 
mother  and  sisters — still,  he  was  destined  to  know  the 
craving  when  back  on  consecrated  ground  once  more, 
and  the  carnal  spirit  of  it  all,  died  from  his  veins. 

The  most  important  lesson  for  Cairns  to  grasp  was 
one  that  Andrew  Bedient  seemed  to  know  from  the  be 
ginning.  It  was  this:  To  make  what  men  call  a  good 
soldier  means  the  breaking  down  for  all  time  of  that 
which  is  thrillingly  brave  and  tender  in  man. 

Healy  is  a  type — a  gamester,  a  fiend,  a  catapult.  With 
a  yell  of  "  Hellsfire ! "  like  a  bursting  shell,  he  would 
rowel  his  saddle-mule  and  lead  the  Train  through  flood 
or  flame.  His  was  a  curse  and  a  blow.  He  seemed  a 
devil,  condemned  ever  to  pound  miles  behind  him — 
bloody  miles.  Sometimes,  there  was  a  sullen  baleful 
gleam  in  the  black  eye,  shaded  by  a  campaign  hat,  but 
more  often  it  was  wide-open  and  reckless  like  a  man 
half-drunk.  Rousingly  picturesque  in  action,  a  boy  would 
exclaim,  "  Oh,  to  be  a  man  like  that !  "  but  a  man  would 
look  at  him  pityingly  and  murmur,  "  God  forbid !  "  .  .  . 
No  other  had  the  racy  oaths  of  this  boss-packer.  Here 
was  his  art.  Out  of  all  his  memories  of  Healy  and  the 
Train,  one  line  stands  out  in  the  mind  of  Cairns,  bringing 
the  picture  of  pictures: 

Again,  it  was  a  swift  twilight  among  the  gorges  be 
tween  Silang  and  Indang.  It  was  after  the  suicide  of 
the  farrier,  and  there  were  sores  and  galls  under  the 
packs.  If  one  cannot  quickly  start  the  healing  by  first 
intention,  a  sore  back,  in  this  climate,  will  ruin  a  mule. 
In  a  day  or  two,  one  is  all  but  felled  by  the  stench 
and  corruption  of  the  worm-filled  wound — when  the 
aparejo  is  lifted.  .  .  .  Just  before  the  halt  this  night,  an 
old  gray  mule,  one  of  the  tortured,  had  strayed  from  the 
bell ;  sick,  indeed,  when  that  jangle  failed  to  hold  her  to 
the  work.  Something  very  strange  and  sorrowful  about 
these  mighty  creatures.  If  they  can  but  muzzle  the 


Red  Pigment  of  Service  39 

flanks  of  the  bell-mare  once  in  twenty- four  hours,  often 
stopping  a  jolt  from  the  heels  of  this  temperamental 
monster — the  mules  appear  morally  refreshed  for  any 
fate. 

Miraculous  toilers,  sexless  hybrids — successful  vent 
ures  into  Nature's  arcanum  of  cross-fertilization — steady, 
humorous,  wise,  enduring,  and  homely  unto  pain!  The 
bond  of  their  whole  organization  is  the  bell.  It  is  the 
source  inseparable  in  their  intelligence  from  all  that  is 
lovely  and  of  good  report — not  the  sound,  but  what  the 
sound  represents.  And  this  is  the  mystery:  mare  or 
gelding  doesn't  seem  to  matter,  nor  age,  color,  temper; 
just  something  set  up  and  smelling  like  a  horse.  Thir- 
teen's  crest- jewel  was  an  old  roan  Jezebel  that  smothered 
with  hatred  at  the  approach  of  the  least  or  greatest  of  her 
slaves.  She  had  a  knock-out  in  four  feet — but  Beatrice, 
she  was,  to  those  mules. 

When  Healy  found  the  old  gray  missing,  he  remem 
bered  she  was  badly  off  under  the  packs.  It  was  an 
ordeal  to  halt  and  search,  for  Silang  meant  supper  and 
pickets.  But  the  boss  led  the  way  back — and  his  eye 
was  first  to  find  her.  .  .  .  There  she  was,  silhouetted 
against  the  sunset  as  poor  Benton  had  been — seventy  or 
eighty  feet  above  the  trail.  Her  head  was  down,  her 
tongue  fallen.  The  old  burden-bearer  seemed  to  have 
clambered  up  the  rocks — through  some  desperate  impulse 
for  a  breeze — or  to  die !  She  lifted  her  head  as  the  hoofs 
rang  below — but  still  looked  away  toward  some  Mecca 
for  good  mules.  You  must  needs  have  been  there  to 
get  it  all — the  old  gray  against  the  red  sky — and  know 
first-hand  the  torture  of  the  trails,  the  valor  of  labor,  the 
awfulness  of  Luzon.  To  Cairns  and  Bedient  there  was 
something  deep  and  heady  to  the  picture,  as  they  followed 
the  eyes  of  Healy — and  then  his  yell  that  filled  the  gorges 
for  miles: 

"  Come  down  here — you  scenery-lovin'  son  of " 

That  was  just  the  vorspid.  Mother  Nature  must  have 
fed  color  to  Healy.  He  did  not  paint,  play  nor  write,  but 


40  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

the  rest  of  that  curse  dropped  with  raw  pigment,  like  a 
painting  of  Sorolla.  Prisms  of  English  flashed  with  ter 
rible  attraction.  It  was  a  Homeric  curse  of  all  nations. 
Parts  of  it  were  dainty,  too,  as  a  butterfly  dip.  Cairns 
was  hot  and  courageous  under  the  spell.  The  whole 
train  of  mules  huddled  and  fell  to  trembling.  A  three- 
legged  pariah-dog  sniffed,  took  on  a  sudden  obsession, 
and  went  howling  heinously  down  the  gorge.  Healy 
rolled  a  cigarette  with  his  free  hand,  and  the  old  gray 
let  herself  down,  half-falling.  .  .  . 

And  then — the  end  of  campaigning.  The  rains  began 
gradually  that  season,  so  that  the  last  days  were  steamy 
and  sickening  with  the  heavy  sweet  of  tropical  fra 
grance.  Between  clouds  at  night,  the  stars  broke  out  more 
than  ever  brilliant  and  near,  in  the  washed  air.  There 
were  moments  when  the  sky  appeared  ceiled  with  phos 
phor,  which  a  misty  cloud  had  just  brushed  and  set  to 
dazzling.  Something  in  the  soil  made  them  talk  of  girls — 
and  Bedient  drew  forth  for  Cairns  (to  see  the  hem  of 
her  garment) — a  certain  hushed  vision  named  Adelaide. 
.  .  .  At  last,  the  Train  made  Manila,  wreck  that  it 
was,  after  majestic  service;  and  the  great  gray  mantle, 
a  sort  of  moveless  twilight,  settled  clown  upon  Luzon  and 
the  archipelago.  Within  its  folds  was  a  mammoth  con 
denser,  contracting  to  drench  the  land  impartially,  inces 
santly,  for  sixty  days  or  more.  And  now  the  fruition  of 
the  rice-swamps  waxed  imperiously;  the  carabao  soaked 
himself  in  endless  ecstasy;  the  rock-ribbed  gorges  of 
Southern  Luzon  filled  with  booming  and  treachery. 
Fords  were  obliterated.  Hundreds  of  little  rivers,  that 
had  not  even  left  their  beds  marked  upon  the  land,  burst 
into  being  like  a  new  kind  of  swarm  ;  and  many  like  these 
poured  into  the  Pasig,  which  swelled,  became  thick  and 
angry  with  the  drain  of  the  hills,  the  overflow  of  the 
rice-lands,  and  the  filth  and  fever-stuff  of  the  cities.  At 
last,  the  constant  din  of  the  rain  became  a  part  of  the 
silence. 


FOURTH   CHAPTER 

THAT  ADELAIDE  PASSION 

ANDREW  BEDIENT  did  not  call  at  all  these  Asiatic  and 
insular  ports  and  continue  to  meet  only  men.  Indeed, 
he  did  not  fail  to  encounter  those  white  women  who  fol 
low  men  to  disrupted  places,  where  blood  is  upon  the 
ground, — nor  those  native  women  inevitably  present.  A 
man  fallen  to  the  dregs  usually  finds  a  woman  to  keep 
him  company,  but  it  is  equally  true  that  man  never  climbs 
so  high  that,  looking  upward,  he  may  not  see  a  woman 
there. 

A  little  before  the  Truxton's  last  voyage,  the  clipper 
had  remained  in  port  for  a  fortnight  at  Adelaide,  New 
South  Wales.  A  woman  in  that  city  was  destined  to 
mean  a  great  deal  to  the  boy  of  seventeen.  ...  It 
would  be  very  easy  to  say  that  here  was  a  creature  whose 
way  is  the  way  of  darkness.  The  striking  thing  is  that 
Adelaide  (in  the  thoughts  of  Bedient  afterward,  she 
gradually  appropriated  the  name  of  her  city)  did  not 
know  she  was  evil.  .  .  .  Such  a  woman,  it  is  curious 
to  note,  has  appeared  in  the  boyhood  of  many  men  of 
power  and  eminent  equipment. 

Adelaide  was  small  and  fragrant.  Though  formerly 
married,  she  was  true  to  her  kind  in  being  childless.  All 
her  interests  were  in  senses  of  her  own ;  or  in  the  senses 
of  men  and  women  who  fell  beneath  her  eye ;  pale,  narrow 
temples  were  hers,  but  crowded  with  what  sensational 
memories !  A  hundred  and  a  few  odd  pounds,  every 
ounce  vivid  with  health  and  rhythmic  with  desire ;  every 
thought  a  kiss  loved,  missed,  or  hoped  for;  a  frail  little 
flame  that  needed  only  time  to  destroy  an  arena  of  gladi 
ators.  Curving,  pearly  nails  with  flecks  of  white  in  them, 
a  light  low  laugh,  a  sweet  low  voice !  Perhaps  this  was 
her  charm,  a  sort  of  sawosen  tone — low  lilting  minors 

41 


42  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Dooi 

that  have  to  do  with  dusk  and  gardens  and  star 
light.  .  .  . 

There  is  not  even  a  laughing  pretense  here  that  Ade 
laide  was  a  real  woman;  but  real  women,  even  in  this 
era  of  woman,  often  fail  to  remember  what  pure  attrac 
tions  to  man,  are  their  silences  and  their  minor  tones. 

Just  a  fortnight — but  what  a  tearing  it  was  to  leave 
her !  Old  Mother  Nature  must  have  writhed  at  this  part 
ing — groaned  at  the  sight  of  the  boy  staring  back  from 
the  high  stern  of  the  Truxton,  at  the  stars  lowering  over 
the  city  and  the  woman,  Adelaide.  Possibly  she  retained 
something  from  the  depth  of  his  individuality.  .  .  . 
Bedient  would  not  have  said  so;  but  there  is  no  doubt 
that  her  importance  in  his  life  was  that  of  a  mannequin 
upon  which  to  drape  his  ideals.  Had  he  seen  her,  in  the 
later  years,  he  would  have  met  the  dull  misery  of  disillu 
sionment.  Adelaide  was  a  boy's  sensational  trophy.  Her 
distant  beauty  and  color  was  the  art  and  pigment  of  his 
own  mind. 

A  soul  rudiment,  a  mental  bud,  and  a  beautiful  pro 
phylactic  body — such  was  her  equipment.  He  dreamed 
of  her  as  a  love  flower  of  inextinguishable  sweetness. 
The  mere  abstraction  of  her  sex, — colorless  enough  to 
most  grown  men, —  was  a  sort  of  miracle  to  the  boy.  He 
made  it  shining  with  his  idealism.  .  .  .  Frail  arms  held 
out  to  him;  cool  arms  that  turned  electric  with  fervor. 
Unashamed,  she  took  him  as  her  own.  .  .  . 

Exquisite  devourer,  yet  she  had  much  to  do  in  bring 
ing  forth  from  the  latent,  one  of  the  rarest  gifts  a  boy  can 
have — lovelier  than  royalty  and  fine  as  genius — the  blue 
flower  of  fastidiousness.  Adelaide,  all  unconcerned,  iden 
tified  herself  with  this,  and  it  lived  in  the  foreground  of 
his  mind.  She  became  his  Southland,  his  isle  of  the  sea. 
Winds  from  the  South  were  her  kisses — almost  all  the 
kisses  he  knew  for  years  afterward.  Living  women  were 
less  to  him  than  her  memory.  Facing  the  South,  through 
many  a  hot-breathed  night,  he  saw  her — and  the  little 
house.  .  . 


That  Adelaide  Passion  43 

And  what  a  drowsy-head  she  was !  Nothing  to  do 
with  the  morning  light,  had  she,  save  when  it  awakened, 
to  shut  it  out  impatiently,  and  turn  over  to  the  dimmest 
of  walls  until  afternoon.  She  had  never  been  truly  alive 
until  afternoon.  How  he  had  laughed  at  her  for  that! 
.  .  .  A  creature  of  languors ;  a  mere  system  of  inert 
dejected  cells  when  alone,  pure  destructive  principle,  if 
you  like, — yet  she  held  this  boy's  heart  to  her,  without  a 
letter,  possibly  with  little  or  no  thought  of  him,  across  a 
thousand  leagues  of  sea — and  this,  through  those  fre 
quently  ungovernable  years  in  which  so  many  men  become 
thick  and  despicable  with  excess. 

Bedient  often  questioned  himself — why  he  had  not 
given  up  his  berth  on  the  Truxton  and  remained  longer 
in  Adelaide.  There  were  a  dozen  ships  in  the  harbor 
to  take  him  forth  when  he  cared.  This  thought  had  not 
come  to  him  at  the  time.  Quite  as  remarkable  was  the 
formidable  something  which  arose  in  his  brain  at  the 
thought  of  going  back.  This  was  not  to  be  fathomed  then 
— nor  willed  away.  The  roots  of  his  integrity  were 
shaken  at  the  thought  of  return.  Andrew  Bedient  at 
thirty-four  understood.  His  was  a  soul  that  could  thrive 
on  dreams  and  denials.  Even  half-formed,  this  soul  was 
the  source  of  a  strange  antagonism,  against  which  the 
fleshly  desire  to  return  was  powerless.  Poise,  indeed,  for 
a  cook  among  sailors  and  packers. 

The  time  came  when  he  heard  other  women — blessed 
women — speak  of  the  Adelaide  type  of  sister  as  the 
crowning  abomination ;  he  watched  their  eyes  harden  and 
glitter  as  only  a  mother-bird's  can,  in  the  circling  shadow 
of  a  hawk ;  he  lived  to  read  in  the  havoc  of  men's  faces 
that  the  ways  of  such  women  were  ways  of  death ;  he 
believed  all  this — yet  preserved  something  exquisite.  Ten 
years  afterward,  winds  from  the  South  brought  him  the 
spirit  of  fragrance  from  her  shoulders  and  hair.  From 
his  own  ideals,  he  had  focussed  upon  that  Emptiness,  the 
beauty  and  dimension  of  a  Helen. 

Other  experiences,  up  to  the  real  romance — and  these 


44  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

were  surprisingly  few — were  episodes,  brief  quickenings 
of  the  old  flame.  .  .  .  When  the  first  American  sol 
diers  were  being  lightered  ashore  in  Manila  harbor,  in 
fact,  shortly  after  the  cannonading  in  the  harbor,  a  certain 
woman  came  over  from  the  States  and  took  a  house  in 
Manila.  It  was  known  as  the  Block-House.  Some 
months  afterward,  and  just  before  the  long  trip  of  the 
Train  in  which  Cairns  featured,  Bedient  met  this  woman 
on  the  Escolta.  It  was  at  dusk,  and  she  was  crossing 
the  narrow  pavement  from  the  post-office  entrance  to  her 
carriage-door.  Their  eyes  met  frankly.  She  was  wise, 
under  thirty,  very  slender,  perfectly  dressed;  pretty,  of 
course,  but  more  than  that ;  her  little  perfections  were  car 
ried  far  beyond  the  appreciation  of  any  but  women  physi 
cally  faultless  as  herself. 

Bedient  was  impressed  with  something  passionate  and 
courageous,  possibly  dangerous.  He  could  not  have 
told  the  source  of  this  impression.  It  was  not  in  the 
contour,  in  the  white  softness  of  skin,  in  the  full  brown 
eyes,  fair  brow,  nor  in  the  reddened  arch  of  her  lips. 
It  was  something  from  the  whole,  denoted  possibly  in  the 
quick  dilation  of  her  delicate  nostrils  or  in  the  startling 
discovery  of  such  a  woman  in  Manila.  .  .  .  She  low 
ered  her  eyes,  started  for  her  carriage — then  turned 
again  to  the  tall  figure  of  Bedient  in  fresh  white  cloth 
ing.  Or  it  may  have  been  that  her  deep  nature  found 
delight  in  the  excellent  boyishness  of  the  tanned  face. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  drive  with  me  on  the  Luneta?  " 
she  asked  pleasantly,  and  there  was  a  low  tone  in  her 
voice  which  made  her  instantly  different. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  should  like  to." 

Her  carriage  was  a  victoriette,  small  to  match  the 
ponies — black  stallions,  noteworthy  for  style  and  spirit 
even  in  Manila,  where  one's  equipage  is  the  measure  of 
fortune.  .  .  .  Bedient  found  that  he  could  be  silent 
without  causing  an  abatement  of  her  pleasure.  And,  in 
deed,  she  seemed  a  little  embarrassed,  too,  although  he 


That  Adelaide  Passion  45 

did  not  accept  this.  Vaguely  he  was  ruffled  by  the 
thought  that  he  had  merely  been  chosen  as  the  principal 
of  a  nightly  adventure.  .  .  .  This  was  untrue. 

It  was  before  the  time  of  native  concerts  on  the  sea- 
drive,  but  in  the  night  itself,  and  in  the  soft  undertone 
from  the  sea,  there  was  ardent  atmosphere — with  this 
woman  beside  him.  The  deeper  current  of  his  thoughts 
rushed  with  memories,  but  upon  the  surface  played 
the  adorable  present,  swift  with  adjustments  as  her 
swiftly-moving  arms.  The  wonder  of  Womanhood  was 
ever-new  to  him.  Mighty  gusts  of  animation  surged 
through  his  body.  He  spoke  from  queer  angles  of  con 
sciousness,  and  did  not  remember.  She  could  laugh 
charmingly.  .  .  .  To  her,  the  Hour  uprose.  Here 
was  clear  manhood  of  twenty  (and  such  an  unhurt  boy 
he  had  proved  to  be) — to  make  her  very  own!  .  .  . 
She  had  taught  herself  to  live  by  the  hour ;  had  forfeited 
the  right  to  be  loved  long.  She  knew  the  time  would 
soon  come,  when  she  could  not  hold  nor  attract  men. 
It  comes  always  to  women  who  dissipate  themselves 
among  the  many.  Yet  she  loved  the  love  of  an  hour ; 
was  a  connoisseur  of  the  love-tokens  of  men  to  her;  no 
material  loss  was  counted  in  the  balance  against  a  win 
ning  such  as  this  promised  to  be.  Here  was  a  big  intact 
passion  which  she  called  unto  herself  with  every  art; 
her  developed  senses  felt  it  pouring  upon  her;  this  was 
a  drug  to  die  for.  It  made  her  brave  and  filled  her  mind 
with  dreams — as  wine  does  to  some  men.  Already  he  was 
giving  her  love — of  a  sort  that  older  men  withhold  from 
her  kind.  She  put  her  hand  upon  his  wrist — and  told 
the  native  to  drive  them  home. 

.  .  .  They  sat  in  a  hammock  together  on  the  rear 
balcony  of  the  Block-House.  It  had  been  a  dangerous 
moment  passing  through  the  house.  There  had  been  em 
barrassments,  the  telltale  artifices  of  the  establishment, 
but  she  would  not  suffer  the  work  of  the  ride  to  be  torn 
down.  She  held  him  in  enchantment  by  sheer  force  of 


46  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

will;  and  now  they  were  alone,  and  she  was  building 
again.  There  was  wine.  Over  the  balcony  rail,  they 
watched  the  Pasig  running  wickedly  below;  and  across, 
stretching  away  to  where  the  stars  lay  low  in  the  rim 
of  the  horizon,  the  wet  teeming  rice-lands  brooded  in  the 
night-mist  .  .  .  The  piano,  which  had  seemed  un 
strung  from  the  voyage,  as  he  passed  through  the 
house,  sounded  but  faintly  now  through  several  shut 
doors.  The  fragments  were  mellifluous.  .  .  . 

She  knew  he  was  a  civilian  from  his  dress,  and  asked 
his  work  in  Luzon.  He  told  her  he  was  cook  of  Pack- 
train  Thirteen,  just  now  quartered  in  the  main  corral. 
She  laughed,  but  didn't  believe.  He  was  not  the  first 
to  conceal  his  office  from  her.  It  was  unpleasant ;  apt  to 
be  dangerous.  She  did  not  ask  a  second  time.  .  .  . 
There  was  just  one  other  perilous  moment.  They  had 
been  together  on  the  balcony  but  a  half-hour,  when  she 
turned  her  face  to  him,  her  eyes  shut,  and  said: 

"  You're  a  dear  boy !  .  .  .  I  haven't  kissed  any 
one  like  that — oh,  in  long,  long!  ...  It  makes  me 
feel  like  a  woman — how  silly  of  me !  " 

Her  face  and  throat  looked  ghastly  white  for  a  mo 
ment  in  the  sheltered  candles.  "  Isn't  it  silly  of  me — 
isn't  it — isn't  it?"  she  kept  repeating,  picking  at  his 
fingers,  and  touching  his  cheeks  in  frightened  fashion. 
.  .  .  She  was  reaching  amazing  deeps  of  him.  The 
best  of  her  was  his,  for  she  could  give  greatly.  It  was 
wonderful,  if  momentary.  He  felt  the  terrific  strength 
of  his  hands,  as  if  his  fingers  must  strike  sparks  when 
he  touched  her  flesh.  The  need  of  her  flamed  high 
within  him.  She  was  delight  in  every  movement  and 
expression ;  and  so  slender  and  fervent  and  sweet-voiced. 
.  .  .  She  had  banished  the  one  encroachment  of  sor- 
didness.  The  high  passion  of  this  moment  was  builded 
upon  basic  attractions,  as  with  children.  Some  strong 
intuition  had  prevailed  upon  her  so  to  build.  They  had 
come  to  an  end  of  words.  , 


That  Adelaide  Passion  47 

A  knock  at  the  door  broke  the  notturno  appassionato. 
She  had  left  word  not  to  be  called  for  any  reason. 
Furiously  now  she  rushed  across  the  room.  .  .  .  Be- 
dient  did  not  see  the  female  servant  at  the  door,  but  heard 

the  frightened  voice  uttering  the  word,  "  Brigadier ." 

The  answer  from  the  woman  who  had  left  his  arms  was 
mercifully  vague,  but  the  voice  at  the  door  whimpered, 
"  Only  it  was  the  General !  "  .  .  . 

It  was  all  hideously  clear.  Bedient  was  left  sterile, 
polar.  The  door  slammed  shut ;  the  woman  faced  him — 
and  understood.  There  was  no  restoring  this  ruin. 
.  .  .  She  now  damned  military  rank  and  her  establish 
ment  in  a  slow,  dreadful  voice.  Her  knuckles  seemed 
driven  into  her  temples.  She  wanted  to  weep,  to  be 
soothed  and  petted — to  have  her  Hour  brought  back,  but 
she  saw  that  her  beauty  was  gone  from  him — and  all  the 
mystery  which  had  been  in  their  relation  a  minute  before. 
.  .  .  Her  rebellion,  so  far  hard-held,  now  became  fiendish. 
It  was  not  against  him,  but  herself.  So  vivid  and  terrible 
was  her  concentration  of  hatred  upon  the  cause,  that 
Bedient  caught  the  picture  of  the  Brigadier  in  her  mind. 
He  saw  the  man  afterward — a  fat  and  famous  soldier. 
.  .  .  She  spat  upon  the  floor.  Her  lower  lip  was  drawn 
in  and  the  small  white  teeth  snapped  upon  it. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  Block-House  ever  to  bring 
him  back.  Her  last  vestige  of  attraction  for  him  had 
disintegrated.  Bedient  had  nothing  to  say;  he  caught 
up  her  clenched  hand  and  kissed  it.  ...  And  in  the 
street  he  heard  feminine  voices  rising  to  the  pitch 
of  hysteria.  A  servant  rushed  forth  for  a  surgeon. 
The  woman  had  fallen  into  "  one  of  her  seizures."  .  .  . 

Pack-train  Thirteen  took  the  field  a  day  or  two 
afterward.  Bedient  was  not  at  all  himself.  ...  In 
all  the  months  that  followed  meeting  David  Cairns  in 
Alphonso,  the  Block-House  incident  was  too  close  and 
horrible  for  words — though  Bedient  spoke  of  Adelaide 
and  the  great  wind  and  a  hundred  other  matters. 


48  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

There  was  another  slight  Manila  experience,  which 
took  place  after  the  first  parting  with  David  Cairns,  the 
latter  being  called  to  China  by  rumors  of  uprising.  Pack- 
train  Thirteen  had  rubbed  itself  out  in  service — was  just 
a  name.  Bedient  was  delighting  in  the  thgught  of  hunt 
ing  up  Cairns  in  China.  ...  It  was  dusk  again,  that 
redolent  hour.  Bedient  had  just  dined.  So  sensitive  were 
his  veins — that  coffee  roused  him  as  brandy  might  an 
other.  His  health  was  brought  to  such  perfection,  that  its 
very  processes  were  a  subtle  joy,  which  sharpened  the 
mind  and  senses.  Bedient  had  been  so  long  in  the  field, 
that  the  sight  of  even  a  Filipino  woman  was  novel. 
Strange,  forbidding  woman  of  the  river-banks — yet  in 
the  twilight,  and  with  the  inspired  eyes  of  young  man 
hood,  that  dusk-softened  line  from  the  lobe  of  the  ear 
to  the  point  of  the  shoulder — a  passing  maid  with  a  tray 
of  fruit  upon  her  head — was  enough  to  startle  him  with 
the  richness  of  romance.  It  was  not  desire — but  the  great 
rousing  abstraction,  Woman,  which  descends  upon  full- 
powered  young  men  at  certain  times  with  the  power  of 
a  psychic  visitation.  His  heart  poured  out  in  a  greeting 
that  girdled  the  world,  to  find  the  Woman — somewhere. 

Bedient  did  not  know  at  this  time  of  the  heart  empti 
ness  of  the  world's  women — a  longing  so  vast,  so  general, 
that  interstellar  space  is  needed  to  hold  it  all.  Still,  he 
had  so  much  to  give,  it  seemed  that  in  the  creative 
scheme  of  things  there  must  be  a  woman  to  receive  and 
ignite  all  these  potentials  of  love.  ...  In  this  mood 
his  mind  reverted  to  that  isle  of  the  sea — the  woman,  and 
the  room  that  was  her  house.  .  .  .  He  was  sitting 
in  the  plaza  before  the  Hotel  d'Oriente.  A  little  bamboo- 
table  was  before  him  and  a  long  glass  of  claret  and  fruit- 
juice.  The  night  was  still ;  hanging-lanterns  were  lit, 
though  the  darkness  was  not  yet  complete.  There  was 
a  mingling  of  mysterious  lights  and  shadows  amon^  the 
palm-foliage  that  challenged  the  imagination — like  an 
unfinished  picture.  .  .  .  Only  a  few  of  the  tables 


That  Adelaide  Passion  49 

were  occupied.  The  native  servants  were  very  quiet. 
Bedient  heard  a  girlish  voice  out  of  the  precious  and 
perilous  South. 

.  .  .  It  was  not  Adelaide.  He  had  only  started  to 
turn,  when  his  consciousness  told  him  that.  But  the 
voice  was  much  like  hers — the  same  low  and  lazy  loveli 
ness  in  the  formation  of  certain  words.  The  appeal  was 
swift.  Bedient  did  not  turn,  though  he  sat  tingling  and 
attentive.  ...  At  this  time  not  a  few  of  the  Ameri 
can  officers  had  been  joined  by  their  wives  in  Manila,  and 
most  of  these  were  quartered  at  the  Orient e.  .  .  .  He 
knew  the  man's  voice,  too,  but  in  such  a  different  way — 
the  voice  of  a  soldier  heard  afield. 

What  was  said  had  little  or  no  significance — a  man's 
tolerant,  sometimes  laughing  monosyllables ;  and  silly, 
cuddling,  unquotable  nothings  from  his  companion.  It 
was  the  ardor  in  her  tones — the  sort  of  completion  of 
sensuous  happiness — and  the  strange  kinship  between 
her  and  the  woman  he  had  known — these,  that  brought  to 
Bedient  a  sudden  madness  of  hunger  to  hear  such  words 
for  his  own.  .  .  . 

The  man  had  but  recently  come  in  from  field-work. 
The  woman  was  fresh  from  a  transport  voyage  from  the 
States.  He  talked  laughingly  of  the  "  niggers "  his 
company  had  met — of  small,  close  fighting  and  surprises. 
She  wanted  to  hear  more,  more, — but  alone.  She  was 
pressing  him,  less  with  words  than  manner,  to  come 
into  the  hotel  and  relate  his  adventures,  where  they 
could  be  quite  alone.  .  .  .  She  had  been  so  pas 
sionately  lonely  without  him — back  in  Washington  .  .  . 
and  the  long  voyage.  .  .  .  Her  voice  enthralled 
Bedient. 

They  were  married.  The  man  laughed  often.  The 
tropics  had  enervated  him,  though  he  made  no  such  con 
fession.  He  wanted  drink  and  lights.  To  him,  the 
present  was  relishable.  Their  chairs  scraped  the  tiles 
before  Bedient  turned.  .  .  .  They  had  not  risen.  She 
4 


50  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

caught  his  eyes.  Hers  were  not  eyes  of  one  who  would 
be  lonely  in  Washington  nor  during  a  long  transport 
voyage.  She  was  very  young,  but  a  vibrant  feminine, 
her  awakening  already  long-past.  There  was  just  a 
glimpse  of  light  hair,  a  red-lipped  profile  and  slow,  shin 
ing  dark  eyes.  She  was  not  even  like  Adelaide,  but 
a  blood  sister  in  temperament.  Bedient  saw  this  in  her 
hands,  wrists,  lips  and  skin,  in  the  pure  elemental  passion 
which  came  from  her  every  tone  and  motion.  One  of 
the  insatiate — yet  frail  and  lovely  and  scented  like  a 
carnation ;  a  white  flower,  red-tipped — sublimate  of 
earthy  perfume. 

Bedient  had  seen  the  man  in  the  field,  a  young  West 
Point  product,  with  a  queer,  rabbit  face,  lots  of  men 
friends,  the  love  of  his  company,  and  a  remarkable  kind 
of  physical  courage — a  splendid  young  chap,  black  from 
the  heats,  who  was  being  talked  about  for  his  grisly  humor 
under  fire.  This  officer  had  seen  his  men  down — and 
stayed  with  them.  .  .  .  His  was  a  different  and 
deeper  love.  He  did  not  hurry.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
would  take  his  hand,  after  all,  and  lead  him  into  the  hotel. 
Just  a  little  girl — little  over  twenty. 

For  the  first  time  it  struck  Bedient  that  he  must 
leave.  He  was  startled  that  he  had  not  left.  His  only 
palliation  for  such  a  venture  into  two  lives — was  the 
memories  her  voice  roused.  His  lips  tightened  with 
scorn  of  self.  And  yet  the  thought  became  a  fury  as  he 
walked  rapidly  through  the  dark  toward  the  river — what 
it  would  mean  to  have  a  woman  want  him  that  way! 
.  .  .  His  thoughts  did  not  violate  the  soldier's  domain. 
Quite  clean,  he  was,  from  that;  yet  she  had  shown  him 
afresh  what  was  in  the  world.  It  was  nearing  midnight ; 
sentries  of  the  city,  still  under  martial  law,  ordered  him 
off  the  streets  before  he  realized  passing  time.  .  .  . 
And  the  hours  did  not  bring  to  his  mind  the  woman  of 
the  Block-House,  nor  anyone  of  those  flaming  desert- 
women  who  love  so  fiercely  and  so  fruitlessly;  whose  re- 


That  Adelaide  Passion  51 

lations  with  men  do  not  weave,  but  only  bind  the  selvage 
of  the  human  fabric.     .    .     . 

Bedient  was  glad  to  get  away  to  sea.  .  .  .  David 
Cairns,  overtaken  in  China,  had  changed  a  little.  It 
appears  that  the  very  best  of  young  men  must  change 
when  they  begin  to  wear  their  reputation.  Riding  with 
Thirteen  had  made  easily  the  best  newspaper  fodder 
which  the  Luzon  campaigns  furnished,  and  the  sparkling 
wine  of  recognition  eventually  found  its  own.  It  must  be 
repeated  that  only  a  boy-mind  can  depict  war  in  a  way 
that  fits  into  popular  human  interest. 

The  David  Cairns  whom  Bedient  met  at  the  Taku 
forts,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Pei-ho,  had  a  bit  of  iron  tonic 
in  his  veins.  His  sentences  were  shorter,  less  faltering 
and  more  frequent.  He  knew  things  that  he  had  formerly 
held  tentatively.  His  conceptions  (during  night-talks) 
were  called  in  quickly  from  the  dream-borders,  and  given 
the  garb  and  weight  of  matter.  The  stamina  of  decision 
had  hardened.  He  was  eager  to  call  Bedient  his  finest 
friend,  but  he  had  forgotten  for  the  time  the  amazing 
subtleties  which  at  first  had  deepened  and  broadened  this 
wanderer's  place  in  his  inner  life.  A  touch  of  success 
and  the  steady  drive  of  ambition  had  gradually  moved  the 
abiding  place  of  Cairns'  consciousness  from  his  heart  to 
his  brain.  Few  would  have  detected  other  than  manliness 
and  improvement.  Bedient  did  not  trust  himself  to  think 
much  about  it,  for  fear  he  would  do  his  friend  an  injus 
tice.  The  fact  that  he  could  not  see  Cairns  differently 
in  the  latter's  first  fame-flush,  and  observing  past  doubt, 
that  he  was  lifted  for  the  world's  eyes,  helped  Bedient 
to  realize  that  he  was  a  bit  weird  in  judgment.  At  all 
events,  something  was  gone  from  the  friendship.  He 
was  sore  at  heart,  more  than  ever  alone.  .  .  .  The 
two  separated  a  second  time  in  Peking  after  the  relief 
of  the  Legations.  Bedient  went  to  Japan,  where  he  made 
the  acquaintance  of  an  old  Buddhist  priest — a  scabby, 


52  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

long-nailed  Zarathustra  who  roamed  the  boxwood  hills 
above  Nikko,  and  meditated. 

Bedient  was  farther  from  such  things  now,  but  he 
could  not  avoid  noting  that  Japan  is  an  old  and  easy  shoe 
for  the  passions.  The  women  of  Japan  are  but  finished 
children,  preserving  a  sense  of  innocence  in  their  be 
stowals.  Many  little  Adelaides  in  fragrance,  without 
will,  without  high  hopes,  only  momentary  and  baby 
hopes — children  happy  in  the  little  happinesses  they  give 
and  take.  This  is  the  extraordinary  feature  of  an  empire 
of  dangerous  half-grown  men.  Moreover,  above  the  deli 
cate  charm  of  sex,  these  little  creatures  are  so  remote  and 
primitive  in  race  and  idea,  so  intrinsically  foreign  and 
undeveloped — that  one  leaves  the  fairest  with  a  mitigated 
pang.  .  .  . 

Bedient  never  repeated  an  action  which  once  had 
brought  home  to  him  the  sense  of  his  own  evil.  The 
emotions  here  narrated  are  but  moments  in  years.  He 
accounted  them  quite  as  legitimate  in  the  abstract  as 
the  strange  visionings  of  his  higher  life,  as  yet  untold. 
These  latter  have  to  do  with  his  maturity,  as  wars  and 
passions  have  to  do  with  the  approach  to  maturity  in  the 
life  of  men.  To  Bedient,  evil  concerned  itself  with  the 
unclean.  Wherever  uncleanness  (to  him  a  pure 
destructive  principle)  revealed  itself  there  was  a  balance 
of  power  in  his  nature  which  turned  him  from  it,  despite 
any  concomitant  attraction.  The  original  Adelaide  was 
a  superb  answer  to  the  more  earthy  of  his  three  natures ; 
so  utterly  confined  to  her  one  plane  as  to  be  innocent  of 
others.  In  the  two  Manila  twilights  which  saw  the 
dominance  of  his  physical  being,  it  was  the  Adelaide 
element  which  roused;  and  the  scars  they  left  behind 
marked  the  scorch  of  memories. 

The  fact  that  there  were  moments  in  which  Bedient 
smoldered  helplessly  in  a  world  of  possible  women  is 
significant  in  the  character  of  one  destined  to  fare  forth 
on  the  Supreme  Adventure.  It  is  true,  he  was  preserved 


That  Adelaide  Passion  53 

in  comparative  purity  though  he  roamed  unbridled  around 
the  world.  Perhaps  it  was  the  same  instinct  which  held 
him  apart  from  men  in  their  lower  moments  of  indulgence. 
He  could  linger  where  there  was  wine  until  the  dregs  of 
the  company  were  stirred  by  the  stimulus.  All  delight 
left  him  then,  and  he  found  himself  alone.  His  leaving 
was  quite  as  natural  as  the  departure  from  a  stifling 
room  of  one  who  has  learned  to  relish  fresh  air.  .  .  . 
It  was  during  his  Japan  stay  that  Bedient  pleased  himself 
often  with  the  thought  that  somewhere  in  the  world 
was  a  woman  meant  for  him — a  woman  with  a  mind  and 
soul,  as  well  as  flesh.  If  the  waiting  seemed  long — why 
should  he  not  be  content,  since  she  was  waiting,  too? 
He  would  know  her  instantly.  The  slightest  errant  fancy 
of  doubt  would  be  enough  to  assure  him  that  she  was  not 
the  One.  .  .  . 

Send  a  boy  out  on  a  long  journey  (even  to  Circe  and 
Calypso,  and  past  the  calling  rocks  of  the  sea),  but  if  his 
mother  has  loved  into  his  life,  the  rare  flower  of  fastid 
iousness,  he  will  come  back,  with  innocence  aglow  beneath 
the  weathered  countenance.  It  is  the  sons  of  strong 
women  who  have  that  fineness  which  makes  them  choice, 
even  in  their  affairs  of  an  hour.  A  beautiful  spirit  of  race 
guardianship  is  behind  this  fastidiousness.  .  .  .  Mi 
raculously,  it  seems  to  appear  many  times  in  the  sons 
of  women  who  have  failed  to  find  their  own  knight- 
errants.  Missing  happiness,  they  have  taken  disillusion 
ment  from  common  man ;  yet  so  truly  have  they  held  to 
their  dreams,  that  ever  their  sons  must  go  on  searching 
for  the  true  bread  of  life. 


FIFTH   CHAPTER 

A  FLOCK  OF  FLYING  SWANS 

ONE  day  (it  was  before  he  knew  David  Cairns) 
Bedient  picked  up  the  Bhagavad  Gita  from  a  book-stand 
in  Shanghai.  It  was  limp,  little,  strong,  and  looked 
meaty.  As  he  raised  his  eyes  wonderingly  from  a  certain 
sentence,  he  encountered  the  glance  of  the  fat  old  German 
dealer. 

"  Will  this  little  book  stand  reading  more  than  once, 
sir?"  Bedient  asked. 

"  Ja — but  vat  a  little-boy  question !  Ven  you  haf  read 
sefen  times  the  year  for  sefen  years — you  a  man  vill  haf 
become." 

Bedient  had  been  through  the  Song  of  the  Divine 
One  many  times  before  he  heard  of  it  from  anyone  else. 
He  had  liked  to  think  of  it  as  a  particular  treasure  which 
he  shared  with  the  queer  old  German,  sick  with  fat. 
Now,  it  was  the  old  Japanese  sage  who  had  turned  the 
young  man's  mind  to  the  comparative  moderns — Car- 
lyle,  Emerson,  Thoreau,  and  several  others — and  it  was 
with  a  shock  of  joy  he  discovered  that  almost  all  of  these 
light-bringers  had  lived  with  his  little  book.  So  queerly 
things  happen.  .  .  .  However,  the  Bhagavad  Gita 
gave  him  a  brighter  sense  of  the  world  under  his  feet,  of 
a  Force  other  than  its  own  balance  and  momentum,  and 
of  its  first  fruits — the  soul  of  man.  .  .  .  In  the  be 
ginning  God  created  Heaven  and  Earth — that  morning 
star  of  Hebrew  revelation  was  not  at  all  dimmed ;  indeed, 
it  shone  with  fairer  lustre  in  the  more  spacious  heavens  of 
the  Farther  East. 

Directly  from  his  old  Japanese  teacher,  and  subtly 
from  the  Bhagavad  Gita  and  the  modern  prophets, 
Bedient  felt  strongly  urged  to  India.  This  culminated  in 
1903,  when  he  was  twenty-five  years  old.  Hatred  of  Rus 
sia  was  powerfully  fomenting  through  the  Japanese  na- 

54 


A  Flock  of  Flying  Swans  55 

tion  at  this  time.  Bedient  grew  sick  at  the  thought  of  the 
coming  struggle,  but  delayed  leaving  for  several  weeks, 
in  the  hope  of  seeing  David  Cairns,  who,  surely  enough, 
was  one  of  the  first  of  the  war-correspondents  to  reach 
Tokyo  late  that  year.  Cairns  had  put  on  pounds  and 
power,  and  only  Bedient  knew  at  the  end  of  certain  fine 
days  together,  that  the  beauty  of  their  first  relation  had 
not  returned  in  its  fullness.  .  .  .  They  parted  (a  third 
time  during  five  years)  in  the  wintry  rain  on  the  water 
front  at  Yokohama,  Cairns  remaining  and  Bedient  tak 
ing  ship  for  Calcutta. 

Up  into  the  Punjab  he  went  with  the  new  year;  and 
there,  all  but  lost  trace  of  time  and  the  world.  He 
seemed  to  have  come  home — an  ineffable  emotion.  When 
they  told  him  quite  seriously  that  the  Ganges  was  sent 
from  heaven,  and  had  wandered  a  thousand  years  in  the 
hair  of  Shiv  before  flowing  down  upon  the  plains  with 
beauty  and  plenty  and  healing  for  sin-spent  man — Bedient 
instantly  comprehended  the  meaning  of  the  figure:  that 
the  hair  of  Shiv  was  the  Himalayas,  whose  peaks  con 
tinually  rape  the  rain-clouds.  And  the  lotos — name, 
fragrance  and  sight  of  this  flower — started  a  little  lyrical 
wheel  tinkling  in  his  mind,  turning  off  snatches  of  verses 
that  sung  themselves ;  and  fluttering  bits  of  romance, 
half-religious  and  altogether  impersonal;  and  strange 
pictures,  lovely,  though  all  but  effaced. 

Indeed,  he  was  one  with  the  Hindus  in  a  love  for  the 
bees,  the  silence,  the  mountains,  rivers,  the  moon,  and 
the  heaven-protected  cattle,  in  whose  great  soft  eyes  he 
found  the  completion  of  animal  peace.  .  .  .  The 
legend  that  the  bees  had  come  from  Venus,  with  the 
perfect  cereal,  wheat,  as  patterns  of  perfection  from  that 
farther  evolved  planet — fascinated,  became  the  lleit-motif 
of  his  thoughts  for  weeks.  Earth  had  earned  a  special 
dispensation,  it  was  said,  and  bright  messengers  came 
with  a  swarm  and  a  sheaf,  each  milleniums  advanced  be 
yond  any  species  of  its  kind  here. 


56  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

From  a  little  boy  he  had  loved  the  bees.  Afternoons 
long  ago  (this  was  deal-  to  him  as  the  memory  of  that 
sinister  hall-way  of  yellow-green  light  which  returned 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  great  wind)  he  had  lain  upon 
the  grass  somewhere,  and  heard  the  hum  of  the  honey- 
gatherers  in  thistle  and  clover.  The  hum  was  like  the 
far  singing  of  a  child-choir,  and  the  dreamings  it  started 
then  were  altogether  too  big  for  the  memory  mechanism 
of  a  little  boy's  head;  but  the  vastness  and  wonder  of 
those  dreamings  left  a  kind  of  bushed  beauty  far  back 
in  his  mind.  He  had  loved  the  bees  as  he  had  loved  the 
Bhagavad  Gita,  thinking  it  peculiarly  his  own  attraction, 
but  when  the  world's  great  poets  and  prophets  became 
known  to  him  through  their  writings,  he  discovered,  again 
with  glad  emotion,  that  bees  had  stirred  the  fancy  of 
each,  stimulated  their  conceptions  of  service  and  com 
munistic  blessedness;  furnished  their  symbols  for  laws 
of  beauty  and  cleanliness,  brotherhood,  race-spirit,  the 
excellence  of  sacrifice — a  thousand  perfect  analogies  to 
show  the  way  of  human  ethics  and  ideal  performance. 
.  .  .  But  beyond  all  their  service  to  literature,  he 
perceived  that  these  masters  among  men  had  loved  the 
bees.  This  was  the  only  verb  that  conveyed  Bedient's 
feelings  for  them ;  and  he  found  that  they  literally 
swarmed  through  Hindu  simile  in  its  expressions  of  song 
and  story  and  faith. 

Northward,  he  made  his  leisure  way  almost  to  the 
borders  of  Kashmir,  before  he  found  his  place  of  abode — 
Preshbend,  a  little  town  of  many  Sikhs,  which  clung  like 
a  babe  to  the  sloping  hip  of  a  mountain.  He  was  taken 
on  by  the  English  of  the  forestry  service,  and  liked  the 
ranging  life ;  liked,  too,  the  rare  meetings  with  his  fel 
low-workers  and  superiors,  quiet,  steady-eyed  men,  quick- 
handed  and  slow  of  speech.  With  all  his  growth  and 
knowledge  of  the  finer  sort,  Bedient  carried  no  equip 
ment  for  earning  a  living — except  through  his  hands. 
There  was  no  hesitation  with  him  in  making  a  choice — 


A  Flock  of  Flying  Swans  57 

between  patrolling  a  forest,  and  the  columns  of  a  ledger. 
All  the  indoor  ways  of  making  money  that  intervene  be 
tween  the  artisan  and  artist  were  to  him  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  When  asked  his  occupation,  he  had  answered, 
"  Cook." 

One  week  in  each  month  he  spent  in  the  town,  and  he 
came  to  love  Preshbend  and  the  people;  the  tall  young 
men,  many  taller  than  he,  and  the  great  lean-armed, 
gaunt-breasted  Sikh  women.  The  boys  were  so  studious, 
so  simple  and  gentle,  compared  with  the  few  others  he 
had  known,  and  the  women  such  adepts  at  mothering! 
Then  the  shy,  slender  girls,  impassable  ranges  between 
him  and  any  romantic  sense ;  yet,  he  was  glad  to  be  near 
them,  glad  to  hear  their  voices  and  their  laughter  in  the 
evenings.  .  .  .  He  loved  the  long  shadow  of  the  moun 
tains,  the  still  dusty  roads  where  the  cattle  moved  so 
softly  that  the  dust  never  rose  above  their  knees;  the 
smell  of  wood-smoke  in  the  dusk,  the  legends  of  the 
gods,  scents  of  the  high  forest,  the  thoughts  which  nour 
ished  his  days  and  nights,  and  the  brilliant  stars,  so  steady 
and  eternal,  and  so  different  from  the  steaming  constel 
lations  of  Luzon; — he  loved  it  all,  and  saw  these 
things,  as  one  home  from  bitter  exile. 

And  then  with  the  cool  dark  and  the  mountain  winds, 
after  the  long,  pitiless  day  of  fierce,  devouring  sunlight, 
the  moon  glided  over  the  fainting  world  with  peace  and 
healing — like  an  angel  over  a  battle-field.  .  .  .  The 
two  are  mystic  in  every  Indian  ideal  of  beauty,  and  alike 
cosmic — woman  and  the  moon. 

There  was  a  certain  trail  that  rose  from  Preshbend, 
and  ended  after  an  hour's  walk  in  a  high  cliff  of  easy 
ascent.  Bedient  often  went  there  alone  when  the  moon 
was  full — and  waited  for  her  rising.  At  last  through  a 
rift  in  the  far  mountains,  a  faint  ghost  would  appear, 
and  waveringly  whiten  the  glacial  breast  of  old  God- 
Mother — the  highest  peak  in  the  vision  of  Preshbend. 
Just  a  nucleus  of  light  at  first,  like  a  shimmering  mist, 


58  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

but  it  steadied  and  brightened — until  that  snowy  summit 
was  configured  in  the  midst  of  her  lowlier  brethren  on  the 
borders  of  Kashmir — and  Bedient,  turning  from  his  deep 
reflections,  would  find  the  source  of  the  miracle,  trailing 
her  glory  up  from  the  South. 

Often  he  lost  the  sense  of  personality  in  these  medita 
tions.  His  eyes  turned  at  first  upon  that  dead,  dark 
mountain,  which  presently  caught  the  reflection  of  the 
moon  (in  itself  a  miracle  of  loveliness)  ;  then  the  moon 
which  held  the  reflection  of  the  hidden  sun,  which  in  its 
turn  reflected  the  power  of  All ;  and  he,  a  bit  of  sup 
pressed  animation  among  the  rocks  of  the  cliff,  auda 
ciously  comprehending  that  chain  of  reflections  and  add 
ing  his  own !  The  marvel  of  it  all  carried  him  a  dimen 
sion  beyond  the  responsiveness  of  mere  brain-tissue,  and 
for  hours  in  which  he  was  not  Bedient,  but  one  with  some 
Unity  that  swept  over  the  pageant  of  the  universe,  his 
body  lay  hunched  and  chill  in  the  cold  of  the  heights. 
.  .  .  That  was  his  first  departure,  and  he  was  in  his 
twenty-eighth  year. 

Another  time,  as  he  watched  old  God-Mother,  he 
suddenly  felt  himself  an  instrument  upon  which  played 
the  awful  yearning  of  the  younger  peoples  of  Europe  and 
America.  Greatly  startled,  he  saw  them  hungering  for 
this  vastness,  this  beauty  and  peace  ;  yet  enchanted  among 
little  things,  condemned  to  chattering  and  pecking  at  each 
other,  and  through  interminable  centuries  to  tread  dim 
hot  ways  of  spite  and  weariness,  cruelty  and  nervous  pain. 
He,  Bedient,  had  found  peace  here,  but  it  was  not  for  him 
to  take  always.  He  seemed  held  by  that  awful  yearning 
across  the  world;  as  if  he  were  an  envoy  commissioned 
to  find  Content — to  bring  back  the  secret  that  would 
break  their  enchantment.  .  .  .  No,  he  was  not  yet 
detached  from  his  people;  he  could  only  accept  tenta 
tively  these  mighty  virtues  of  wonder  and  silence,  gird 
his  loins  with  them  and  finally  take  back  the  rich  tidings. 
.  .  .  Was  he  dwelling  in  silence  to  walk  in  power  over 


A  Flock  of  Flying  Swans  59 

there?  This  excited  and  puzzled  him  at  first.  Bedient 
as  a  bearer  of  light  was  new.  .  .  . 

Yet  hunger  was  growing  within  for  his  own  people ; 
a  passion  to  tell  them ;  rather  to  make  them  see  that  all 
their  aims  and  possessions  were  not  worth  one  moment, 
such  as  he  had  spent,  watching  the  breast  of  old  God- 
Mather  whiten,  with  the  consciousness  of  God  walking 
in  the  mountain-winds,  the  scent  of  camphor,  lotos,  sandal 
and  wild-honey  in  His  garments.  A  passion,  indeed, 
grew  within  him  to  make  his  people  see  that  real  life  has 
no  concern  with  wrestlings  in  fetid  valleys,  but  up,  up 
the  rising  roads — poised  with  faith,  and  laughing  with 
power — until  through  a  rift  in  the  mountains,  they 
are  struck  by  the  light  of  God's  face,  and  shine  back — 
like  the  peaks  of  Kashmir  to  the  moon. 

And  another  night  it  came  to  him  that  he  had  some 
thing  to  say  to  the  women  of  his  people.  This  thought 
emerged  clean-cut  from  the  deeps  of  abstraction,  and 
he  trembled  before  it,  for  his  recent  life  had  kept  him 
far  apart  from  women.  And  now,  the  thought  occurred 
that  he  was  better  prepared  to  inspire  women — because 
of  this  separateness.  He  had  preserved  the  boyish  ideal 
of  their  glowing  mystery,  their  lovely  cosmic  magnetism. 
India  had  stimulated  it.  All  the  lights  of  his  mind  had  fallen 
upon  this  ideal,  all  the  colors  of  the  spectrum  and  many 
from  heaven — certain  swift  flashes  of  glory,  such  as  are 
brought,  in  queer  angles  of  light,  from  a  butterfly's  wing. 
He  had  been  mercifully  spared  from  moving  among  the 
infinitudes  of  small  men  who  hold  such  a  large  estimate 
of  the  incapacity  and  commonness  of  women.  .  .  . 
Even  among  the  Sikh  mothers  (Bedient  did  not  dream 
how  his  spirit  prospered  during  these  Indian  years)  his 
ideal  was  strengthened.  He  found  among  the  mothers 
of  the  Punjab  a  finer  courage  than  ever  the  wars  had 
shown  him — the  courage  that  bends  and  bears — and  an 
answering  sweetness  for  all  the  good  that  men  brought 
to  their  feet. 


60  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

So  one  night  at  last  he  found  himself  thanking 
God  in  the  great  silence — that  he  could  see  the  natural 
greatness  of  women ;  that  he  was  alive  to  help  them ;  that 
he  could  pity  those  who  knew  only  the  toiling,  not  the 
mystic,  hands  of  women ;  pity  those — and  tell  them — 
who  knew  her  only  as  a  sense  creature.  .  .  .  And 
swiftly  he  wanted  to  tell  women — how  high  he  held 
them — that  one  man  in  the  world  had  kept  his  vision  of 
them  brighter  and  brighter  in  substance  and  spirit.  He 
had  the  queer,  almost  feminine,  sense  of  their  needing  to 
know  this,  and  of  impatience  to  give  them  their  happiness. 
Perhaps  they  did  not  continually  hold  this  in  mind ;  per 
haps  the  men  of  their  world  had  taught  them  to  forget. 
.  .  .  They  would  be  happier  for  his  coming.  He 
would  put  into  each  woman's  heart — as  only  a  man  c&uld 
do — a  quickened  sense  of  her  incomparable  importance; 
make  her  remember  that  mothering  is  the  loveliest  of  all 
the  arts ;  that  only  in  the  lower  and  savage  orders  of  life 
the  male  is  ascendant ;  that  as  the  human  race  evolves  in 
the  finer  regions  of  the  spirit — when  growth  becomes 
centred  in  the  ethereal  dimension  of  the  soul — woman, 
invariably  a  step  nearer  the  great  creative  source,  must 
assume  supremacy.  .  .  .  Among  the  dark  mountains 
the  essence  of  all  these  thoughts  came  to  him  during 
many  nights. 

He  would  make  women  happier  by  restoring  to  them 
— their  own.  He  must  show  how  dreadful  for  them 
to  forget  for  an  instant — that  they  are  the  real  inspirers 
of  man ;  that  they  ignite  his  every  conception ;  that  it  is 
men  who  follow  and  interpret,  and  the  clumsy  world  is 
to  blame  because  the  praise  so  often  goes  to  the  inter 
preter,  and  not  to  the  inspiration.  But  praise  is  a  puny 
thing.  Women  must  see  that  they  only  are  lovely  who 
remain  true  to  their  dreams,  for  of  their  dreams  is  made 
the  spiritual  loaf,  the  real  vitality  of  the  race ;  that  by 
remaining  true  to  their  dreams,  though  starved  of  heart, 
the  sons  that  come  to  them  will  be  the  lovers  they  dream 
of — and  bring  the  happiness  they  missed  to  the  daughters 


A  Flock  of  Flying  Swans  61 

of  other  women.  For  love  is  spirit — the  stuff  of  dreams 
— and  love  is  Giving.  .  .  .  He  must  bring  to  women 
again,  lest  they  forget,  this  word :  that  never  yet  has  man 
sung,  painted,  prophesied,  made  a  woman  happy,  nor  in 
any  way  woven  finer  the  spirit  of  his  time,  but  that  God 
first  covenanted  with  his  mother  for  the  gift — and,  more 
often  than  not,  the  gift  was  startled  into  its  supreme  ex 
pression  by  the  daughter  of  another.  .  .  .  All  in  a  sen 
tence,  it  summed  at  last,  to  Bedient  alone, — a  flaming 
sentence  for  all  women  to  hear:  Only  through  the  poten 
tial  greatness  of  women  can  come  the  militant  greatness 
of  men. 

And  so  things  appeared  unto  him  to  do,  as  he  watched 
the  miracle  of  the  moon  bringing  forth  the  lineaments 
of  the  old  God-Mother;  and  so  the  cliff  became  his  Sinai. 
On  this  last  night,  for  a  moment  at  least,  he  felt  as  must 
an  immortal  lover  who  has  seen  clearly  the  way  of  chiv 
alry — the  task  which  was  to  be,  as  the  Hindus  say,  the 
fruit  of  his  birth.  .  .  .  Thus  he  would  go  down,  face 
glowing  with  new  and  luminous  resolves.  .  .  .  And 
once  dawn  was  breaking  as  he  descended,  and  the  whir 
of  wings  aroused  him.  Looking  upward  he  saw  (as 
did  Another  of  visions),  in  the  red  beauty  of  morning — a 
flock  of  swans  flying  off  to  the  South. 

Gobind  must  not  be  forgotten — old  Gobind,  who  ap 
peared  in  Preshbend  at  certain  seasons,  and  sat  down 
in  the  shade  of  a  camphor-tree,  old  and  gnarled  as  he ; 
but  a  sumptuous  refuge,  as.  in  truth  was  Gobind  in  the 
spirit.  The  natives  said  that  the  austerities  of  Gobind 
were  the  envy  of  the  gods;  that  he  could  hold  still  the 
blood  in  his  veins  from  dusk  to  dawn;  and  make  the 
listener  understand  many  wonderful  things  about  himself 
and  the  meaning  of  life. 

The  language  had  come  to  Bedient  marvellously.  Lit 
erally  it  flowed  into  his  mind,  as  in  the  rains  a  rising 
river  finds  its  old  bed  of  an  earlier  season. 

"  This  is  your  home,  Wanderer,"  Gobind  told  him. 


62  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  Long  have  you  travelled  to  and  fro  and  long  still  must 
you  wander,  but  you  will  come  back  again  to  the  cool 

shadows,  and  to  these "  Gobind  lifted  his  hand  to 

point  to  the  roof  of  the  world.  The  yellow  cloth  fell  away 
from  his  arm,  which  looked  like  a  dead  bough  blackened 
from  many  rains.  "  For  these  are  your  mountains  and 
you  love  these  long  shadows.  All  Asia  and  the  Islands 
you  have  searched  for  these  shadows,  and  here  you  are 
content,  for  your  soul  is  Brahman.  .  .  .  But  you  are 
not  ready  for  Home.  You  are  not  yet  tired.  Long  still 
must  you  wander.  Some  sin  of  a  former  birth  caused 
you  to  sink  into  the  womb  of  a  woman  of  the  younger 
peoples.  You  have  yet  to  return  to  them — as  one  coming 
down  from  the  mountains,  after  the  long  summer,  brings 
a  song  and  a  story  for  the  heat-sick  people  of  the  plains 
to  hear  at  evening " 

This  was  the  substance  of  many  talks.  It  was  always 
the  same  when  Gobind  shut  his  eyes. 

"  You  say  I  shall  come  back  here,  good  Gobind  ?  " 
Bedient  asked. 

"  Yes,  you  will  come  back  here  to  abandon  the 
body "  ' 

"Alone?" 

"  Yes." 

Bedient  was  filled  with  grave  questions.  One  can 
always  put  a  mystic  meaning  to  the  direct  saying  of  a 
Hindu  holy  man,  but  there  seemed  no  equivocation 
here.  The  young  man  was  slow  to  believe  that  all  his 
dreaming  must  come  to  naught.  It  seemed  as  if  his  whole 
inner  life  had  been  built  about  the  dream  of  a  woman ; 
and  of  late  she  had  seemed  nearer  than  ever,  and  different 
from  any  woman  he  had  ever  known — the  mate  of  his 
mind  and  soul  and  flesh.  For  a  long  time  he  progressed 
no  farther  than  this,  for  falling  into  his  own  thoughts, 
he  would  find  only  the  aged  body  of  Gobind  before  him — 
the  rest  having  stolen  away  on  night-marches  of  deep 
moment,  while  he,  Bedient,  had  tried  to  realize  his  life 


A  Flock  of  Flying  Swans  63 

loneliness.  At  last  he  could  think  of  nothing  else  through 
out  the  long  day,  and  he  went  early  in  the  semi-light  and 
sat  before  the  holy  man.  The  dusk  darkened,  and  a  new 
moon  rose,  but  Gobind  did  not  rise  to  mere  physical 
consciousness  that  night,  though  Bedient  sat  very  still 
before  him  for  hours.  The  bony  knees  of  the  old  ascetic, 
covered  with  dust,  were  moveless  as  the  black  roots  of  the 
camphor-tree ;  and  a  dog  of  the  village  sat  afar  off  on  his 
haunches  and  whined  at  intervals,  waiting  for  the  white 
man  to  go,  that  he  might  have  the  untouched  supper, 
which  a  woman  of  Preshbend  had  brought  to  Gobind's 
begging-bowl. 

And  again  the  next  night  Bedient  came,  but  Gobind 
was  away  playing  with  the  gods  of  his  youth — just  the 
old  withered  body  there — and  the  dog  whining. 

But  the  third  night,  the  eyes  of  Gobind  filled  with 
his  young  friend 

"  You  say,  good  father  Gobind,"  Bedient  said  quickly, 
"  that  I  shall  come  back  here  alone  to  die  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  Sannyasin  answered  simply,  but  a  moment 
later,  he  shivered,  and  seemingly  divined  all  that  was  in 
the  young  man's  mind,  for  he  added :  "  You  will  learn 
to  look  within  for  the  woman.  .  .  .  You  would  not 
find  favor — in  finding  her  without.  .  .  .  It  is  not  for 
you — the  red  desire  of  love !  " 

It  was  during  these  years  in  India  that  Bedient  began 
to  put  down  the  thoughts  which  delighted  him  during 
the  long  rides  through  the  forest;  and  something  of  the 
thrill  of  his  reflections,  as  he  watched  old  God-Mother 
from  his  cliff.  He  found  great  delight  in  this,  and  his 
mind  was  integrated  by  expression.  He  recalled  many 
little  pictures  of  the  early  years — not  the  actions,  but  the 
reflections  of  action.  It  was  fascinating.  He  found  that 
his  journal  would  bulk  big  presently,  so  he  took  to  polish 
ing  as  he  went  along;  chose  the  finest,  toughest 
Indian  parchment — and  wrote  finely  as  this  print — for  it 


64  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

was  clear  to  him  that  he  had  entered  upon  what  was  to 
prove  a  life-habit. 

The  letters  from  Captain  Carreras  had  become  more 
frequent  in  late  years;  in  fact,  there  was  almost  always 
a  letter  en  route  either  from  Preshbend  or  Equatoria. 
.  .  .  The  Captain  wanted  him  to  come ;  stronger  and 
stronger  became  the  call.  So  far  as  money  was  concerned, 
he  had  done  extraordinarily  well.  He  always  wrote  of 
this  half-humorously.  ...  At  last  when  Bedient  was 
beginning  his  seventh  year  in  the  Punjab,  there  came  a 
letter  which  held  a  plaint  not  to  be  put  aside. 

Bedient  was  in  his  thirty-second  year;  and  just  at 
this  time  old  Gobind  left  his  body  for  a  last  time  be 
neath  the  camphor-tree.  The  young  man  had  sat 
before  him  the  night  before,  and  the  holy  man  had 
told  him  in  symbolism — that  the  poor  murky  river  of  his 
life  had  made  its  last  bend  through  the  forests,  and  was 
swiftly  flowing  into  the  sea  of  time  and  space.  Though 
he  sat  long  after  silence  had  settled  down,  Bedient  did 
not  know  (so  softly  and  sweetly  did  the  old  saint  depart) 
that  the  Sannyasin  was  tranced  in  death  instead  of  medi 
tation.  It  was  not  until  the  next  morning,  when  he  heard 
the  Sikh  women  of  the  village  weeping — one  above  all — 
that  he  understood.  It  was  not  a  shock  of  grief  to  these 
women,  for  such  is  their  depth  that  the  little  matters 
which  concern  all  flesh  and  which  are  inevitable,  cannot 
be  made  much  ado  of.  Still  it  was  feminine  and  beautiful 
to  him,  their  weeping;  and  possibly  the  one  who  wept 
loudest  had  mothered  old  Gobind  in  her  heart,  and  there 
was  emptiness  in  the  thought  that  she  could  not  fill  his 
begging-bowl  again.  Bedient,  as  well  as  others  of  the 
village,  knew  that  to  Gobind,  death  was  a  long-awaited 
consummation ;  that  he  was  gone  only  from  the  physical 
eye  of  the  village.  That  missed  him — as  did  Bedient, 
who  had  loved  to  sit  at  the  fleshly  feet  of  the  holy  man. 
.  .  .  But  he  loved  all  Preshbend,  too. 

And  at  length,  he  set  out  on  foot  for  Lahore — often 
looking  back. 


SIXTH  CHAPTER 

THAT  ISLAND  SOMEWHERE 

ALL  these  impressive  years,  from  seventeen  to  thirty- 
two,  had  brought  Andrew  Bedient  nothing  in  the  civilized 
sense  of  success.  It  is  quickly  granted  that  he  was  a 
failure  according  to  such  standards.  He  had  never  been 
in  want  nor  debt,  nor  so  poor  that  he  could  not  cover 
another's  immediate  human  need  if  presented;  yet  the 
reserve  energy  of  all  these  years,  in  fact,  of  his  whole  life, 
as  represented  in  gold,  amounted  to  less  than  three  hun 
dred  dollars.  Probably,  outside  of  Asia,  there  was  not  a 
white  man  who  had  accumulated  three  hundred  dollars 
with  less  thought ;  certainly  in  Asia  there  was  none,  white 
or  black,  who  carried  this  amount  with  less  vital  concern. 
Up  the  years,  he  had  given  no  thought  to  the  oft- 
expressed  eagerness  of  Captain  Carreras  to  help  him  in 
a  substantial  way.  He  had  always  felt  that  he  would  go 
to  his  friend — at  times  had  hungered  for  him — and  now 
he  answered  the  call. 

Fifteen  years  since  he  had  taken  the  hand  of  Captain 
Carreras  and  laughingly  refused  to  share  the  other's 
fortunes!  Bedient  remembered  how  bashfully,  but  how 
genuinely,  that  had  been  suggested.  Then  the  Captain's 
manner  had  become  crisp  and  nervous  to  hide  his  heart 
break,  and  the  order  was  given  with  all  the  authority  of 
the  quarter-deck,  that  Bedient  must  never  fail  in  any 
extremity  to  make  known  his  need.  But  there  had  been 
no  need — save  for  the  friendship.  .  .  . 

Strange  old  true  heart  that  could  not  forget!  Be 
dient  felt  it  in  every  letter.  Thousands  of  acquaintances, 
but  not  a  friend  nor  relative !  He  thought  about  Bedient 
every  day;  an  old  man's  heart  turned  to  the  boy  whose 
hands  had  suddenly  fallen  upon  him  with  such  amazing 
power.  Occasionally  in  the  letters,  there  was  an  obvious 
5  65 


66  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

effort  to  cover  this  profundity  of  affection  with  a  surface 
of  humor,  but  it  always  broke  through  before  a  page  was 
blotted.  .  .  .  Equatoria,  and  his  really  remarkable 
acquisitions  there,  were  invariably  matters  for  light 
touches.  He  had  picked  up  big  lands  for  almost  nothing ; 
and  he  found  himself  presently  in  strong  favor  with  what 
was  probably  the  most  stable  government  Equatoria  had 
ever  known.  The  Captain's  original  purpose  of  acquir 
ing  the  mineral  rights  of  certain  rich  rivers  had  greatly 
prospered.  Yes,  there  was  gold  in  the  river-beds.  .  .  . 
Incidentally,  to  keep  his  hands  "  from  mauling  the 
natives,"  he  had  caused  to  be  planted  at  different  times, 
several  thousand  acres  of  cacao  trees,  all  of  which  were 
now  bearing.  The  Captain  explained  naively  that  these 
had  turned  out  rather  handsomely,  since  the  natives  har 
vested  the  nuts  for  him  at  a  ludicrously  low  figure,  and 
Holland  sent  ships  twice  a  year  for  the  product.  "  Just 
suggest  anything  to  this  soil,  and  the  answer  is  peren 
nials.  We  can't  bother  with  stuff  that  has  to  be  planted 
more  than  once,"  he  observed.  Bedient  returned  many 
times  to  the  letter  that  told  about  the  goats.  Part  of  it 
read: 

"  There  was  a  rocky  strip  of  land  in  the  fork  of  two 
rivers — several  thousand  acres — that  almost  shut  itself 
off,  so  narrow  and  rocky  was  the  neck.  .  .  .  For  a 
long  time  this  big  bottle  of  land  troubled  me — couldn't 
think  of  any  use  to  put  it  to — until  somebody  mentioned 
goats.  In  a  fit  of  industry,  I  shipped  over  a  few  goat 
families  from  Mexico,  turned  them  loose  in  the  natural 
corral — and  forgot  all  about  them  for  a  couple  of  years. 
You  see,  the  natives  are  fruit-eaters,  and  it's  too  hot  for 
skins.  My  men  occasionally  brought  me  word  that  the 
goats  were  doing  well.  Finally,  I  sent  a  party  over  to 
pile  a  few  more  rocks  at  the  mouth.  They  came  back 
pale  and  awed,  begging  me  to  come  and  look.  I  went.  I 
tell  you,  boy,  there  were  parades,  caravans,  pageants  of 
goats  in  there — all  happy  in  the  stone-crop.  ...  I 


That  Island  Somewhere  67 

haven't  dared  to  look  for  a  year  or  more,  but  with  a 
good  marine-glass  from  the  upper  window  of  the  haci 
enda,  you  can  see  a  portion  of  the  tract.  They're  hopping 
about  over  there — thick  as  fleas !  .  .  .  That's  the  way 
everything  multiplies.  Come  and  extricate  me  from  the 
goat  problem!  .  .  .  Dear  lad,  I  do  need  you — not 
for  goats,  nor  for  fruit,  nor  mining,  nor  chocolate  inter 
ests,  not  to  be  my  cook — forgive  the  mention  of  a  delight 
ful  memory — but  as  a  lonely  old  man  needs  a  boy — his 
boy." 

Only  a  half-day  in  New  York  on  the  way  down  to 
Equatoria,  or  the  alternative  of  waiting  over  a  ship, 
meaning  eight  days  later  with  Captain  Carreras.  Bedient 
could  not  bring  his  mind  to  the  latter  delay  at  this  stage 
of  the  journey,  though  the  metropolis  called  to  him 
amazingly.  Here  he  had  been  born;  and  here  was  the 
setting  of  many  early  memories,  now  seen  through  a  kind 
of  faery  dusk.  With  but  an  hour  or  so  in  lower  Man 
hattan,  he  swept  in  impressions  like  a  panorama-film,  his 
mind  held  to  no  single  thought  for  more  than  an  instant. 
The  finest  outer  integument  had  never  been  worn  from 
his  nerves,  so  that  nothing  of  the  pandemonium  dis 
tressed;  but  what  his  oriental  training  called  the  illusion 
of  it  all — really  dismayed.  It  seemed  as  if  the  millions 
were  locked  in  some  terrible  slavery,  which  they  did  not 
fully  understand,  only  that  they  must  hurry,  and  never 
cease  the  devouring  toil.  In  the  hideous  walled  cities  of 
China,  the  same  thought  had  often  come  to  Bedient — that 
these  myriads  had  been  condemned  by  the  sins  of  their 
past  lives,  blindly  to  gather  together  and  maim  each 
others'  souls. 

Still  there  was  some  big  meaning  for  him  in  New 
York.  Bedient  realized  that  sooner  or  later  he  would 
return.  Toward  the  end  of  the  afternoon,  as  he  looked 
back  from  the  deck  of  the  Dryden  steamer  Hatteras,  he 
realized  that  New  York  had  dazed  him;  that  something 


68  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

of  the  grand  gloom,  something  of  the  granite,  had  entered 
his  heart.  Perhaps  it  was  well  for  him  to  have  these 
glimpses,  and  to  hurry  away  to  adjust  himself  in  the 
silence — before  he  took  up  his  place  in  New  York  again. 

A  week  later  the  PIcittcras  awaited  dawn,  sixty  miles 
off  the  northern  coast  of  Equatoria.  Treacherous  coral 
reefs  extend  that  far  out  to  sea,  and  the  lights  of  the 
passage  into  port  are  few.  This  is  an  ugly  part  of  the 
Caribbean  in  high  seas.  Moreover,  the  coral  has  a  way 
of  changing  its  ramifications ;  its  spires  build  rapidly  in 
the  warm  surface  water. 

All  the  forenoon  the  liner  crawled  in  toward  the  har 
bor,  and  at  last  through  the  blazing  noon,  Bedient  saw 
Coral  City  in  a  foreground  of  palm-decked  hills.  Cer 
tain  fresh-tinned  roofs  close  to  the  water-front  reflected 
the  sun  like  a  burning-glass.  Nearer  still,  a  few  white 
buildings  on  the  seaward  slopes  shone  through  the  heat 
haze  with  the  vividness  of  jewels — whitened  walls  gleam 
ing  among  the  palms  and  colorful  turrets  of  pure  Spanish 
line.  The  strip  of  beach,  white  as  a  road  of  shells,  lost 
itself  on  either  side  of  the  city  in  its  own  dazzling  light. 
Films  of  heat  danced  upon  the  painted  roofs.  The  sky 
was  a  blinding  azure  that  tranced  the  hills  and  harbor 
with  its  brilliance^  silence  and  magic. 

Clouds  of  yellow  mud  boiled  up  from  the  bottom  of 
the  oozy  harbor  as  the  Hatteras  dropped  her  hook;  and 
the  sharks  moved  about,  all  the  more  shuddery  in  their 
tameness.  Two  launches  were  making  for  the  steamer, 
and  Bedient,  sheltering  his  eyes  from  the  light,  discovered 
the  little  Captain  standing  well-forward  on  the  nearest — 
a  puffy,  impatient  face,  pathetically  unconscious  of  its  own 
workings  in  anxiety.  Bedient's  uplifted  hand  caught 
the  other's  eye  as  the  launch  neared.  The  old  adventurer 
needed  a  second  or  two  to  take  in  the  tall  figure  and  the 
changed  countenance — then  a  look  of  gladness,  full,  deep 
and  tender  with  embarrassment,  crowned  the  years  and 
the  long  journey. 


That  Island  Somewhere  69 

Bedient  had  to  remember  hard,  after  dozens  of  fluent 
and  delightful  letters,  that  he  must  encounter  the  old 
bashfulness  again.  .  .  .  Plainly  the  Captain  showed 
the  years.  There  was  the  dark  dry  look  of  some  inner 
consuming,  and  the  trembling  mouth  was  lined  and  asser 
tive,  where  formerly  it  was  unnoticed  in  the  general 
cheer.  There  was  a  break  in  rotundity.  Perhaps  this, 
more  than  anything  else,  put  a  strange  hush  upon  the 
meeting.  Bedient  was  glad  he  had  not  delayed  longer; 
and  he  saw  he  must  break  through  the  embarrassment, 
as  the  boy  and  the  cook  of  years  ago  would  not  have 
thought  of  doing.  The  old  perfume  sought  his  nostrils 
delicately  with  a  score  of  memories. 

The  Captain  seemed  to  have  an  absurd  number  of 
natives  at  his  disposal.  Bedient's  small  pieces  of  baggage 
were  prodigiously  handled.  A  carriage  was  provided, 
and  the  two  drove  up  the  main  thoroughfare,  Calle  Real. 
The  little  city  was  appointed  and  its  streets  named  by 
the  Spanish.  Parts  of  it  were  very  old,  and  Bedient  liked 
the  setting,  which  was  new  to  him — the  native  courtesy 
and  the  mellowness  of  architecture  which  that  old  race  of 
conquerors  has  left  in  so  many  isles  of  the  Western  sea. 

At  the  head  of  the  rising  highway  shone  a  gilded 
dome,  a  sort  of  crown  for  the  city.  Bedient  had  seen  it 
shining  from  the  harbor,  and  supposed  it  to  be  the  capitol. 
The  building  stood  upon  an  eminence  like  a  temple. 
Calle  Real  parted  to  the  right  and  left  at  its  gates.  Their 
carriage  passed  to  the  right,  and  within  the  walls  were 
groves  of  palms,  gardens  of  rose,  rhododendron,  jasmine, 
flames  of  poinsettia,  and  a  suggestion  of  mystic  glooms 
where  orchids  breathed — fruit,  fragrance,  fountains. 

"  The  Capitol  ?  "  laughed  the  Captain.  "  No,  my  boy, 
those  little  rain-rotted,  stone  buildings  near  the  water 
front  are  the  government  property.  However,  you  never 
can  tell  about  Equatoria.  There  are  folks  who  believe 
that  this  stone  palace  of  Senor  Rey  is  fated  to  become  the 
Capitol.  It  might  happen  in  two  ways.  Senor  Rey 


70  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

might  overturn  the  government  and  move  headquarters 
to  his  own  house.  You  see,  he  loves  fine  things  too  well 
to  reside  back  yonder.  Or,  the  government  overturning 
Celestino  Rey — would  ultimately  move  up  here  on  the 
hill." 

Bedient  laughed  softly.  It  was  all  delightfully  young 
to  him.  "  Then  Senor  Rey  aspires  ?  " 

"  That's  the  idea — only  we  put  it  '  conspires  '  down 
here.  .  .  .  It  is  really  a  remarkable  institution — this 
of  Senor  Rey's,"  Carreras  went  on.  He  forgot  himself  in 
a  narrative.  "  Now,  if  you  were  in  New  York  and  had 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars  of  another  man's  money,  and 
wanted  to  relax — you  would  come  here  to  Equatoria,  and 
put  up  with  Celestino  Rey.  To  all  appearances,  The 
Pleiad  is  a  hotel,  but  in  reality  it's  just  a  club  for  those 
who  have  taken  the  short  cut  to  fortune — the  direct  and 
amiable  way  of  loot.  There's  so  much  red  tape  in  Equa 
toria  that  a  New  York  warrant  for  arrest  would  be  about 
as  compelling  in  our  city  as  a  comic  valentine. 

"  So  you  see,  Andrew,  those  who  used  to  fly  to 
Mexico  now  come  here.  This  is  the  most  interesting 
colony  of  crime-cultured  gentlemen  in  the  world — ex- 
cashiers,  penmen,  promoters  and  gamblers,  all  move  in 
those  great  halls  and  gardens.  There  are  big  games. 
Senor  Rey  is  an  artist  in  many  ways,  not  only  as  a  master 
of  gambling  chances.  His  palace  is  filled  with  art  treas 
ures  from  all  lands.  He  was  a  pirate  in  these  waters — 
yes,  within  your  years.  I  heard  of  him  in  Asia  as  the 
most  murderous  pirate  the  Caribbean  had  ever  known — 
and  this  was  the  Spanish  Main.  Of  course,  stories 
build  about  a  picturesque  figure.  The  Senor  must  be 
seventy  years  old  now,  but  a  man  of  mystery,  fabulously 
rich.  .  .  .  Just  a  little  while  ago,  he  brought  over  a 
fresh  bride  from  South  America.  They  say  she's  a 
thriller  to  look  at.  The  Spaniard  calls  her  his  '  Glow 
worm  ' " 

"  Truly  a  honeymoon  name,"  Bedient  observed. 


That  Island  Somewhere  71 

"  You  see,"  the  Captain  concluded,  "  I  can  speak  of 
The  Pleiad  only  from  the  outside.  That's  the  Senor's 
name  for  his  establishment,  possibly  because  there  are 
seven  wings  to  his  castle,  but  others  say  it  was  the  name 
of  a  gold-ship  that  he  took  in  the  early  days.  Anyway, 
Rey  and  I  don't  neighbor.  He's  becoming  formidable, 
I'm  told,  in  the  politics  of  the  Island.  He's  at  the  head 
of  a  very  powerful  colony  nevertheless,  and  no  matter 
what  its  inter-relations  are,  it  hangs  together  against  the 
law  and  the  outside  world.  Rey  wants  more  say  back 
yonder  at  headquarters,  and  our  Dictator,  Jaffier,  all 
things  considered,  is  a  very  good  man,  but  old  and  stub 
born  and  impolitic.  He  won't  be  driven  even  by  Celes- 
tino  Rey,  who  in  turn  is  not  a  man  to  be  denied.  He  is 
probably  richer  than  Equatoria,  and  then  Coral  City  lives 
off  this  institution  as  Monaco  lives  off  Monte  Carlo. 
He  doubtless  commands  the  whole  lower  element  of  the 
town.  The  word  is,  Celestino  Rey  intends  to  run  the 
Island  first-hand — if  he  can't  run  it  through  the  powers 
that  are." 

All  of  which  Bedient  found  of  interest,  inasmuch  as 
he  was  passing  through  the  heart  of  these  strange  affairs. 
Having  any  part  in  them  seemed  unearthly  remote.  The 
carriage  was  taking  the  gradual  rise  behind  a  pair  of  fine 
ponies,  and  the  view  behind,  over  The  Pleiad  to  the 
sapphire  water,  was  noble.  The  horizon,  beyond  the  har 
bor  distances,  was  a  blazing  intensity  of  light  that  stung 
the  eyes  to  quick  contraction.  The  Captain  sat  back  in 
the  cushions,  weary  from  talking,  but  his  face  was  happy, 
and  he  took  in  the  exterior,  and  something  of  the  inner 
proportions,  of  the  young  man,  with  a  sense  of  awe.  He 
did  not  try  to  explain  yet — even  to  himself. 

The  hacienda  was  slightly  over  twenty  miles  interior. 
Bedient  was  entranced  by  the  sunset  from  the  heights. 
Them  the  slow  ride  to  the  Carreras  House  through  the 
darkened  hills:  the  smell  of  warm  earth  from  the  thick 
growths  by  the  trail-side;  little  stars  slipping  into  place 


72  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

like  the  glisten  of  fireflies  in  a  garden,  or  gems  in  a 
maiden's  hair ;  a  scandalously-naked  new  moon  lying 
low,  like  an  arc  of  white-hot  wire  in  the  purple  twilight, 
and  always  behind  them,  a  majestic  splash  of  jewel-edged 
crimson  which  showed  the  West. 

And  presently,  from  a  high  curve  in  the  road,  they 
saw  the  lights  of  the  hacienda  bold  upon  its  eminence — 
and  a  dark  valley  between.  Into  this  night  they  de 
scended,  for  the  last  course  of  the  journey ;  and  as  the 
ponies  clattered  upward  again,  white-coated  natives  came 
forth  to  meet  them.  Bedient  was  further  astonished  at 
their  volubility  and  easy  laughter.  They  spoke  a  debased 
Spanish,  which  the  Captain  had  fallen  into, — as  difficult 
of  understanding  for  one  whose  medium  was  pure  Cas- 
tilian  as  for  one  who  spoke  English.  There  was  that 
mystery  upon  the  environs  that  always  comes  to  one 
who  reaches  his  destination  in  the  darkness.  And  to 
Bedient  the  sensation  was  not  wholly  of  joy.  These  were 
wild  hills,  not  without  grandeur,  but  there  was  something 
of  chaos,  too,  to  him  who  came  from  the  roof  of  the  world. 
He  missed  the  peace  of  the  greater  mountains.  His  heart 
hungered  to  go  out  to  the  natives  crowding  around — 
white-toothed  men  and  women  of  incessant  laughter — 
but  the  tones  of  their  voices  checked  the  current.  It  was 
emptiness — but  nothing  he  had  to  give  seemed  able  to 
enter. 

The  Captain  was  ill  with  fatigue.  His  face — the 
weakness  expressed  in  the  smiling  mouth — remained  be 
fore  Bedient's  mind,  as  he  followed  a  giggling  native  boy 
to  the  large  upper  room  which  was  for  him.  Rows  of 
broad  windows  faced  the  South  and  East,  while  a  corri 
dor  ran  to  the  North  for  the  cool  wind  at  night.  Electric 
lights  and  glistening  black  floors — the  first  effect  came 
from  these.  Then  the  details:  rugs  that  matched,  by 
art  or  accident,  as  perfectly  as  a  valley  of  various  grain- 
fields  pleases  the  eye  from  a  mountain-side ;  a  great  teak 
bed,  caned  with  bamboo  strips  and  canopied  with  silk 


That  Island  Somewhere  73' 

net,  yards  of  which  one  could  crush  in  his  hand,  so  nearly 
immaterial  was  this  mosquito  fabric ;  sumptuous  steamer- 
chairs  ;  a  leather  reading-couch  that  could  be  moved  to  the 
best  breeze  or  light  with  a  touch  of  the  finger ;  a  broad 
side  of  books  and  a  vast  writing-table,  openly  dimensioned 
to  defy  litter — the  whole  effect  was  that  of  coolness  and 
silence  and  room.  Everything  a  man  needed  seemed  to 
be  there  and  breathing  spaciously.  .  .  .  Turning 
through  a  draped  door,  the  astonished  wanderer  found 
completeness  again — everything  that  makes  a  bath  fra 
grant  and  refreshing — even  to  Carreras  scent  and  a  set  of 
perfect  English  razors.  ...  It  was  all  new  to  Be- 
dient.  For  an  hour  he  tried  things — and  still  there  were 
drawers  and  cases  of  undiscovered  novelties  and  luxuries 
— details  of  wealth  which  make  delightful  and  uncommon 
the  mere  processes  of  living.  Very  much  restored  in  his 
fresh  clothing,  and  eagerly,  he  went  down  to  dinner. 

The  little  man  was  waiting  with  expectant  smile  under 
a  dome  of  sheltered  lights  in  the  dining-hall.  Something 
of  his  dazed,  ashen  look  brought  back  to  Bedient  the  after 
noon  of  the  great  wind — the  Captain  expecting  to  stick  to 
his  ship.  .  .  .  The  table  was  set  for  two,  and  on  one 
corner  was  the  fresh  handkerchief  and  the  rose-dark 
meerschaum  bowl.  Bedient  took  his  old  place  at  the 
other's  chair  until  the  Captain  was  seated — and  both  were 
laughing  strangely.  .  .  .  The  ships  from  Holland 
brought  all  manner  of  European  delicacies.  Fresh  meats 
and  Northern  vegetables  arrived  every  eight  days  in  the 
refrigerators  of  the  alternating  Dryden  steamers,  Hat- 
ieras  and  Henlopen,  from  New  York.  Most  tropical 
fruits  were  native  to  Equatoria — those  thick,  abbreviated 
red  bananas,  and  small  oranges  with  thin  skin  of  suede 
finish,  so  sharply  sweet  that  one  never  forgets  the  first 
taste.  These  were  served  in  their  own  foliage. 

Much  of  the  solid  and  comfortable  furnishing  of  the 
hacienda  had  come  from  the  old  English  house  of  the 
Carreras'  in  Surrey.  The  Captain's  cook,  Leadley,  and 


74  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

his  personal  factotum,  Falk,  were  English.  A  dozen 
natives  kept  the  great  house  in  order;  and  their  white 
dress  was  as  fresh  and  pleasing  as  the  stewards  of  an 
Atlantic  liner.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Captain  Carreras 
had  softened  in  this  kingly  luxury,  the  infinite  resource 
fulness  of  which  was  startling  to  Bedient,  who  had  known 
but  simplicities  all  his  years,  and  who  even  in  the  Orient 
had  been  his  own  servant. 

The  Captain  lit  his  pipe  but  forgot  to  keep  it  going. 
His  eyes  turned  to  Bedient  again  and  again,  and  each 
time  with  deeper  regard.  Often  he  cleared  his  voice — 
but  failed  to  speak.  The  young  man  plunged  into  the 
heart  of  things — and  finally  with  effort,  the  other  inter 
rupted. 

"  You  are  not  what  I  expected — forgive  me, 
Andrew " 

"  You  mean  I've  disappointed  you  ?  Thinking  a  long 
time  about  one — sometimes  throws  the  mand  off  the  main 
road  of  reality " 

"  Dear  God,  not  disappointed.  .  .  .  The  Man  has 
come  to  you  in  a  different  way  than  I  expected,  that's 
all.  What  has  India  been  doing  to  you  ?  " 

"  It  made  New  York  very  strange  to  me,"  said 
Bedient. 

"  You  are  like  an  Oriental,"  Carreras  added.  "  Oh, 
they  are  all  mad  up  in  The  States.  .  .  .  It's  very 
g"ood  to  have  you  back.  I  wonder  why  it  was — that  I 
never  doubted  you'd  come  ?  "  Here  the  Captain  swal 
lowed  some  wine  without  adequately  preparing  his  throat, 
and  fell  to  coughing.  Then  he  rose  with  the  remark 
that  he  had  experienced  altogether  too  much  joy  for  one 
old  man,  in  a  single  day — and  started  for  bed  in  con 
fusion.  Bedient  sat  back  laughing  softly,  but  noting  the 
feeble  movement  of  the  other's  limbs,  quickly  gave  his 
arm.  Up  they  went  together.  ...  In  the  big  room 
alone,  Bedient  put  on  night  garments ;  and  unsatisfied, 
crossed  after  a  time  to  the  Captain's  quarters.  He  found 


That  Island  Somewhere  75 

the  old  man  sitting  in  the  dark  by  the  window,  the 
meerschaum  glowing.  ...  It  may  have  been  the 
darkness  altogether;  or  that  Bedient  as  a  man  gave  the 
other  an  affection  that  the  boy  could  not;  in  any  event 
that  night,  they  found  each  other  across  the  externals. 

•      •       • 

This  was  the  cue  for  further  grand  talks — pajamas 
and  darkness.  Often,  if  it  were  not  too  late,  they  would 
hear  the  natives  singing  in  their  cabins.  The  haunting 
elemental  melody  of  the  African  curiously  blended  with 
the  tuneful  and  cavalierish  songs  of  Spain  and  fitted  into 
the  majestic  nights.  The  darkies  sang  to  the  heart  of 
flesh.  In  such  moments,  Equatoria  was  at  her  loveliest 
for  Bedient — but  the  clear  impersonal  meditations  did 
not  come  to  him.  In  a  hundred  ways  he  had  been  given 
understanding  during  the  first  fortnight,  of  that  some 
thing  he  had  missed  the  first  night  on  the  Island.  These 
people  were  infant  souls.  They  were  children,  rudimen 
tary  in  every  thought.  Theirs  were  sensations,  not  emo 
tions  ;  superstitions,  not  faiths.  Their  consciousness  was 
never  deeper  than  the  skin.  And  fresh  from  his  spacious 
years  in  India,  where  everything  is  old  in  spirit,  where 
more  often  than  not  the  beggar  is  a  sage, — to  encounter 
in  this  land  of  beauty,  a  people  who  were  but  babes  in 
the  thought  of  God — gave  to  Bedient  the  painful  sense 
that  his  inner  life  was  dissipating.  There  was  no  Gobind 
to  restore  him.  It  was  as  if  the  Spirit  had  favored  the 
East;  that  Africa  and  the  Western  Isles  had  been  cast 
apart  as  unfit  for  the  experiment  of  the  soul. 

Moments  of  poignant  sorrow  were  these  when  Bedient 
realized  he  was  not  of  the  West;  that  he  irrevocably 
missed  the  great  inner  content  of  India,  and  would  con 
tinue  to  hunger  for  it,  until  he  returned,  or  coarsened  his 
sensibilities  to  the  Western  vibration.  This  last  was  as 
far  from  him  as  the  commoner  treason  to  a  friend.  There 
were  moments  when  he  feared  Captain  Carreras  almost 
understood.  That  dear  old  seaman  through  his  solitudes, 


76  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

his  natural  cleanness  and  kindness,  his  real  love,  and 
more  than  all,  through  those  vague  visions  which  come 
late  to  men  of  simple  hearts — had  seemed,  from  several 
startling  sayings,  to  touch  the  very  ache  in  the  young 
man's  breast.  These  approaches  were  under  the  cover  of 
darkness : 

"  There  was  something  about  you  then,  Andrew," 
(meaning  the  long-ago  days  at  sea,)  "  I  haven't  been  able 
to  forget.  .  .  .  Damme — I  haven't  dene  well 
here " 

Bedient  bent  forward,  perceiving  that  "  here  "  meant 
his  earthly  life,  as  well  as  Equatoria. 

"  I  should  have  stayed  over  yonder  and  sat  down  as 
you  did — before  you  did.  Here  " — now  the  Captain 
meant  Equatoria  alone — "  I  have  thought  of  my  stomach 
and  my  ease.  My  stomach  has  gone  back  on  me — and 
there  is  no  ease.  Over  there,  I  might  have — oh,  I  might 
have  thought  more — but  I  didn't  know  enough,  early 
enough.  And  you  did — at  seventeen,  you  did!  That's 
what  made  you.  They're  all  mad  up  in  The  States,  and 
they're  just  little  children  down  here.  ...  I  might 
have  profited  in  India " 

That  was  a  frequent  saying  of  the  Captain's  about  the 
States.  Twice  a  year  at  least,  he  was  accustomed  to  make 
the  voyage  to  New  York.  .  .  .  The  truth  was,  the  old 
man  felt  a  yearning  for  something  the  years  and  India 
had  given  Bedient.  He  felt  much  more  than  he  said,  and 
often  regarded  the  young  man,  as  one  rapt  in  meditation. 
.  .  .  His  interest  in  Gobind  and  the  Himalayas  was 
insatiable;  much  more  eagerly  did  he  listen  regarding 
the  Punjab  than  about  the  ports  he  had  known  so  well — 
and  the  changes  that  had  passed  under  the  eyes  of  the 
young  man  in  Manila  and  Japan.  .  .  .  When  Be 
dient  was  relating  certain  events  of  days  and  nights, 
that  had  become  happy  memories  through  the  little  things 
of  the  soul,  Captain  Carreras  would  start  to  convey  the 
indefinite  desires  he  felt;  then  suddenly,  the  deep  inti- 


That  Island  Somewhere  77 

macy  of  his  revelations  would  appear  to  his  timid  nature, 
and  even  in  the  mothering  dark,  the  panic  would  strike 
home — and  he  would  swing  off  with  pitiful  humor  about 
goats  or  some  other  Island  affair.  .  .  . 

Bedient  had  an  odd  way  of  associating  men  whom  he 
liked  with  mothers  of  his  own  imagining.  Happily  dis 
covering  fine  qualities  in  a  man,  he  would  conjure  up  a 
mother  to  fit  them.  .  .  .  Often,  he  saw  the  little 
Englishwoman  whose  boy  had  taken  early  to  the  seas. 
.  .  .  She  was  plump  and  placid  in  her  cap;  inclined 
to  think  a  great  deal  for  herself,  but  still  she  allowed 
herself  to  be  kept  in  order  mentally  and  spiritually  by 
her  husband,  whose  orthodoxy  was  a  whip.  Perhaps  she 
died  thinking  her  tremulous  little  departures  were  sure 
attractions  of  hell  and  heresy.  Bedient  liked  to  think  of 
her  as  vastly  bigger  than  her  mate,  bigger  than  she 
dreamed — but  alone  and  afraid. 


SEVENTH   CHAPTER 

ANDANTE   CON  MO  TO  -FIFTH 

FOR  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Bedient  learned  what 
America  liked  to  read.  ...  All  the  finer  expressions 
of  the  human  mind  and  hand  gave  him  deep  joy.  His 
love  and  divination  for  the  good  and  the  true  were  the 
same  that  characterized  the  rarest  minds  of  our  ancestors, 
who  had  access  only  to  a  few  noble  books  in  their  forma 
tive  years.  And  Bedient's  was  the  expanded  and  fortified 
intelligence  of  one  who  has  grown  up  with  the  Bible. 

Each  ship  brought  the  latest  papers,  periodicals  and 
certain  pickings  from  the  publishers'  lists.  India  had  not 
prepared  Bedient  for  this.  With  glad  welcome  he  discov 
ered  David  Cairns  here  and  there  among  short-story 
contributors,  but  the  love  of  man  and  woman  which  the 
stories  in  general  exploited,  struck  him  of  Indian  ideals 
as  shifty  and  pestilential.  The  woman  of  fiction  was 
equipped  with  everything  to  make  her  as  common  as  man. 
She  was  glib,  pert,  mundane,  her  mind  a  chatter-mill ; 
a  creature  of  fur,  paint,  hair,  and  absurdly  young. 
The  clink  of  coins  was  her  most  favorable  accompani 
ment  ;  and  her  giving  of  self  was  a  sort  of  disrobing 
formality.  The  men  who  pursued  her  were  f reward  and 
solicitous.  There  was  something  of  sacrilege  about  it  all. 
The  minds  and  souls  of  real  women — such  were  not  mat 
ters  for  American  story;  and  yet  the  Americans  wrote 
with  dangerous  facility.  Bedient,  who  worshipped  the 
abstraction,  Womanhood,  felt  his  intelligence  seared, 
calcined.  .  .  .  Only  here  and  there  was  a  bit  of  real 
literature — usually  by  a  woman.  The  men  seemed  hung 
up  to  dry  at  twenty-five.  There  was  no  manhood  of  mind. 

Bedient's  sense  of  loneliness  became  pervasive.  Ap 
parently  he  was  outside  the  range  of  consciousness — for 
better  or  worse — with  the  country  to  which  he  had  always 

78 


Andante  Con  Moto — Fifth  79 

hoped  to  give  his  best  years.  His  ideals  of  the  literary 
art  were  founded  upon  large  flexible  lines  of  beauty  into 
which  every  dimension  of  life  fell  according  to  the 
reader's  vision.  He  felt  himself  alone;  that  he  was  out 
of  alignment  with  this  young  race  from  which  he  had 
sprung,  to  wander  so  far  and  so  long. 

And  yet  there  was  a  Woman  up  there  for  him  to 
know.  This  was  imbedded  in  his  consciousness.  Soon 
he  should  go  to  her.  .  .  .  He  should  find  her.  And 
as  the  Hindu  poets  falteringly  called  upon  the  lotos  and 
the  nectars;  upon  the  brilliance  of  midday  athwart  the 
plain,  and  the  glory  of  moonlight  upon  mountain  and 
glacier  and  the  standing  water  of  foliaged  pools;  upon 
the  seas  at  large,  and  the  stars  and  the  bees  and  the 
gods — to  express  the  triune  loveliness  of  woman  (which 
mere  man  may  only  venture  to  appraise,  not  to  know) — 
so  should  he,  Bedient,  envision  the  reality  when  the  winds 
of  the  world  brought  him  home  to  her  heart. 

There  was  much  to  do  at  the  hacienda.  The  Captain 
was  past  riding  a  great  deal,  and  the  large  hill  and  river 
property — the  coffee,  cacao,  cotton,  cane  and  tobacco 
industries  profited  much  better  with  an  overseer.  Still 
Bedient  slowly  realized  that  the  hundreds  of  natives  in 
touch  with  Captain  Carreras'  plantations  worked  about 
as  well  for  him  as  they  knew.  Single-handed,  Carreras 
had  done  great  things,  and  was  loved  as  a  good  doctor  is 
loved.  In  spite  of  his  huge  accumulation  of  land,  the 
Captain  was  the  least  greedy  of  men.  He  had  been  con 
tent  to  improve  slowly.  His  incalculable  riches,  as  he 
had  early  confided  to  Bedient,  were  in  the  river-beds. 
Only  a  few  of  these  placer  possibilities  were  operated. 
There  was  a  big  leak  in  the  washings.  Still,  the  natives 
were  not  greedy,  either.  They  were  home-keepers,  and 
had  no  way  to  dispose  of  bullion. 

Carreras  had  managed  all  his  affairs  so  as  to  keep 
the  government  on  his  side,  and  his  revenues  were  no 


80  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

little  part  of  the  support  of  the  Capitol.  This  was  his 
largest  outlay,  but  in  return  he  was  protected.  .  .  . 
Deep  disorder  brooded  in  the  present  political  silence ;  all 
recalcitrants  were  gathering  under  Celestino  Rey — but 
this  situation  was  only  beginning  to  be  understood. 

At  certain  times  of  year,  Carreras  had  in  his  employ 
the  heads  of  five  hundred  families,  and  had  shown  himself 
unique  in  paying  money  for  labor.  This  was  un-Spanish. 
It  gave  him  the  choice  of  the  natives.  He  represented 
therefore  a  stable  and  prosperous  element  of  the  popula 
tion.  His  revenues  were  becoming  enormous.  The 
Hollanders  paid  him  a  fortune  annually  for  raw  chocolate. 
This,  with  tree-planting  and  culture,  would  double,  for 
the  soil  seemed  to  contain  the  miraculous  properties  of 
alkahest.  The  point  of  all  this  is,  that  Captain  Carreras 
had  come  to  be  regarded  as  the  right  wing  of  the  govern 
ment.  He  arranged  all  his  dealings  on  a  friendly  rather 
than  a  business  basis ;  his  good-will  was  his  best  protec 
tion.  .  .  .  Bedient  had  been  in  Equatoria  for  several 
months  when  Jaffier  sent  for  the  Captain. 

"  I  don't  feel  like  it,  but  I'd  better  go,"  the  old  man 
said.  "  Something  amiss  is  in  the  air.  Damme,  I've  got 
all  delicate  to  the  saddle  since  you  came,  sir.  ...  I 
used  to  think  nothing  of  the  ride  down  town — and  now 
it's  a  carriage.  .  .  .  Ah,  well,  you  can  try  out  a  new 
symphony — and  tell  me  what  it  says  when  I  get  back." 

As  it  turned  out,  Bedient  did  exactly  this  thing. 
.  .  .  Time  could  not  efface  the  humor  evoked  by  the 
sight  or  sound  of  the  magnificent  orchestrelle.  During 
one  of  the  Captain's  New  York  trips,  he  had  heard  a  fam 
ous  orchestra.  The  effect  upon  him  was  of  something 
superhuman.  The  Captain  went  again — followed  the 
musicians  to  Boston  and  Philadelphia.  The  result  was 
more  or  less  the  same.  Soul  flew  in  one  direction ;  mind 
in  another;  and,  inert  before  the  players — a  little  fat  man, 
perspiring,  weeping,  ecstatic.  What  came  of  it,  he  had 
told  Bedient  in  this  way: 

"The  Hatteras  was  to  sail  at  night-fall,  but  on  that 


Andante  Con  Moto — Fifth  81 

morning  I  went  into  a  music-store,  not  knowing-  what  I 
wanted  exactly, — but  a  souvenir  of  some  kind,  a  book 
about  orchestras.  It  appears,  I  told  a  man  there  how  I'd 
been  philanderin'  with  the  musicians;  how  I  had  caught 
them  in  an  off  day  at  Springfield,  Mass.,  and  bought 
cornucopias  of  Pilsner  until  they  would  have  broken 
down  and  wept  had  they  not  been  near  their  instruments. 
.  .  .  It  was  a  big  music-store,  and  he  was  a  very  good 
man.  He  sold  me  the  orchestrelle  that  morning.  You 
think  I  had  an  electric  plant  installed  down  here  to  light 
the  house  and  drive  my  sugar-mill,  don't  you  ?  It  wasn't 
that  at  all,  but  to  run  the  big  music-box  yonder.  The 
man  had  smoothly  attached  a  current,  but  he  said  I  could 
just  as  well  pump  it  with  my  feet.  Then  he  called  in  a 
church  organist — to  drive  the  stops.  Between  them,  they 
got  me  where  I  was  all  run  down  from  that  orchestra 
crowd.  They  said  a  child  could  learn  the  stops.  .  .  . 
You  should  have  heard  my  friends  on  the  Hatteras — 
when  the  orchestrelle  was  put  aboard  that  afternoon. 
They  never  forget  that.  Then  we  had  a  triple  ox-cart 
made  down  in  Coral  City,  and  four  span  were  goaded  up 
the  trail — and  there  she  stands. 

"  Andrew,  they  finally  left  me  alone  with  it  and  a 
couple  of  hundred  music-rolls.  ...  It  was  hours 
after,  that  I  came  forth  a  sick  man  to  cable  for  power. 
.  .  .  About  those  music-rolls — I  had  called  for  the 
best.  One  does  that  blind,  you  know.  But  the  best  in 
music  matters,  it  appears,  has  nothing  to  do  with  retired 
sea-captains.  .  .  .  It's  a  pretty  piece  of  furniture. 
The  orchestra  had  died  out  of  me  by  the  time  we  had  the 
electric-plant  going.  ...  I  take  it  you  have  to  be 
caught  young  to  deal  with  those  stops.  .  .  .  You  go 
after  it,  Andrew.  It  scares  me  and  the  natives  when 
it  begins  to  pipe  up.  I  had  a  time  getting  my  household 
back  that  first  time.  Maybe,  I  didn't  touch  the  right 
button — or  I  touched  too  many.  You  go  after  it,  my  boy 
— IL'S  all  there — appassionato — oboe — '  consharto ' — vox 

humana  and  the  whole  system " 

6 


82  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

.  .  .  It  is  hard  for  one  to  realize  how  little  music 
Bedient  had  heard  in  his  life.  Just  a  few  old  songs — 
always  unfinished — but  they  had  haunted  the  depths  of 
him,  and  made  him  think  powerfully.  Certain  strains 
had  loosed  within  him  emotions,  ancient  as  world-dawns 
to  his  present  understanding,  but  intimate  as  yesterday 
to  something  deeper  than  mind.  And  so  he  came  to  ask : 
"  Are  not  all  the  landmarks  of  evolution  identified  with 
certain  sounds  or  combinations  of  sounds?  Is  there  not 
an  answering  interpretation  in  the  eternal  scroll  of  man's 
soul,  to  all  that  is  true  in  music  ?  " 

Long  ago,  one  night  in  Korea,  he  had  been  wakened 
by  the  yammering  of  a  tigress.  His  terror  for  a  moment 
had  been  primal,  literally  a  simian's  helpless  quaking. 
Earlier  still,  he  had  heard  a  hoot-owl,  and  encountered 
through  it,  his  first  realization  of  phantom  horrors;  he 
knew  then  there  was  an  Unseen,  and  nether  acoustics; 
here  was  a  key  to  ghostly  doors.  A  mourning-dove  had 
brought  back  in  a  swift  passage  of  consciousness  the 
breast  of  some  savage  mother.  Night-birds  everywhere 
meant  to  him  restless  mystery.  ...  Is  sound  a  key 
to  psychology?  Is  the  history  of  our  emotions,  from 
monster  to  man,  sometime  to  be  interpreted  through  music 
— as  yet  the  infant  among  the  arts  ? 

The  answer  had  come — why  the  unfinished  songs  had 
the  greater  magic  for  him.  So  diaphanous  and  ethereal 
is  this  marvellously  expressive  young  medium,  music,  that 
the  composers  could  only  pin  a  strain  here  and  there  to 
concrete  form — as  a  bit  of  lace  from  a  lovely  garment 
is  caught  by  a  thorn.  So  they  build  around  it — as  flesh 
around  spirit.  But  it  was  the  strain  of  pure  spirit  that 
sang  in  Bedient's  mind — and  knew  no  set  forms.  So  an 
artistic  imagination  can  finish  a  song  or  a  picture,  many 
times  better  than  the  original  artist  could  with  tones  or 
pigments.  Too  much  finish  binds  the  spirit,  and  checks 
the  feeling  of  those  who  follow  to  see  or  hear. 

These,  and  many  thoughts  had  come  to  him  from  the 


Andante  Con  Moto— Fifth  83 

unpretentious  things  of  music.  .  .  .  Ben  Bolt 
brought  back  the  memory  of  some  prolonged  and  des 
perate  sorrow.  The  lineaments  of  the  tragedy  were 
effaced,  but  its  effect  lived  and  preyed  upon  him  under 
the  stress  of  its  own  melody.  Once  he  had  heard  Caller 
Herrin'  grandly  sung,  and  for  the  time,  the  circuit  was 
complete  between  the  Andrew  Bedient  of  Now,  and  an 
other  of  a  bleak  land  and  darker  era.  In  this  case  the 
words  brought  him  a  clearer  picture — gaunt  coasts  and 
the  thrilling  humanity  of  common  fisher  folk.  .  .  . 
Many  times  a  strain  of  angelic  meaning  and  sweetness 
was  yoked  to  a  silly  effigy  of  words ;  but  he  rejoiced  in 
opposite  examples,  such  as  that  little  lullaby  of  Tenny 
son's,  Sweet  and  Low,  which  J.  Barnby  seemed  to  have 
exactly  fowo-graphed.  .  .  .  Once  across  infantry 
campfires,  Juanita  came,  with  a  bleeding  passion  for  home 
— to  him  who  had  no  home.  There  was  a  lyrical  Ireland 
very  dear  to  him — songs  and  poems  which  wrung  him 
as  if  he  were  an  exile ;  Tom  Moore's  Sunflower  Song  in 
cited  at  first  a  poignant  anguish,  as  of  a  sweetheart's 
dead  face ;  and  Lead  Kindly  Light  brought  almost  the 
first  glimmer  of  spiritual  light  across  the  desolate  dis 
tances  of  the  world — like  a  tender  smile  from  a  greater 
being  than  man.  And  there  were  baleful  songs  that  ran 
red  with  blood,  as  the  Carmagnole;  and  roused  past  the 
sense  of  physical  pain,  like  the  Marseillaise.  What  heroic 
sins  have  been  committed  in  their  spell!  By  no  means 
was  it  all  uplift  which  the  songs  brought.  There  was  one 
night  when  he  heard  Mandalay  sung  by  some  British  sea 
man  across  the  dark  of  a  Japanese  harbor.  They  were 
going  out,  and  he  was  coming  into  port.  .  .  . 

These  were  his  sole  adventures  in  music,  but  they  had 
bound  his  dreams  together.  He  had  felt,  if  the  right 
person  were  near,  he  could  have  made  music  tell  things, 
not  to  be  uttered  in  mere  words ;  and  under  the  magic  of 
certain  songs,  that  which  was  creative  within  him,  even 
dim  and  chaotic,  stirred  and  warmed  for  utterance. 


84  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

.  .  .  So  fresh  a  surface  did  Bedient  bring  to  the  Car- 
reras  music-room. 

The  time  had  come  when  his  nature  hungered  for 
great  music.  The  orchestrelle  added  to  the  Island  some 
thing  he  needed  soulfully.  Experimenting  with  the  rolls, 
the  stops  and  the  power,  he  found  there  was  nothing  he 
could  not  do  in  time.  Music  answered — trombone,  clari 
onet,  horn,  bassoon,  hautboy,  flute,  'cello  answered. 
Volume  and  tempo  were  mere  lever  matters.  On  the  rolls 
themselves  were  suggestions.  Reaching  this  point,  his 
exaltation  knew  no  bounds.  He  looked  upon  the  great 
array  of  rolls — symphonies,  sonatas,  concertos,  fantasies, 
rhapsodies,  overtures,  prayers,  requiems,  meditations, 
minuets — and  something  of  that  rising  power  of  gratitude 
overcame  him,  as  only  once  before  in  his  life — when  he 
had  realized  that  the  Bible  was  all  words,  and  they  were 
for  him.  From  the  first  studious  marvellings,  Bedient's 
mind  lifted  to  adoring  gratefulness  in  which  he  could 
have  kissed  the  hands  of  the  toilers  who  had  made  this 
instrument  answer  their  dreams.  Then,  he  fell  deeply 
into  misgiving.  It  seemed  almost  a  sacrilege  for  him  to 
take  music  so  cheaply ;  that  he  had  not  earned  such  joy. 
But  he  could  praise  them  in  his  heart,  and  he  did  with 
every  sound. 

The  orchestrelle  unfolded  to  a  spirit  like  this.  Doubt 
less  his  early  renderings  of  random  choice  were  weird, 
but  more  and  more  as  he  went  on,  the  great  living  things 
righted  themselves  in  his  consciousness,  for  he  had  ear 
and  soul  and  love  for  them.  Some  great  fissure  in  his 
nature  had  long  needed  thus  to  be  filled.  He  sent  for 
books  about  the  great  composers;  descriptions  of  the 
classics ;  how  the  themes  were  developed  through  differ 
ent  instruments.  Then  he  wanted  the  history  of  all 
music ;  and  for  weeks  his  receptivity  never  faltered.  No 
neophyte  ever  brought  a  purer  devotion  to  the  masters. 
His  first  loves — the  Andante  in  F,  the  three  movements  of 
the  Kreutser  Sonata,  a  prayer  from  Otello,  the  Twelfth 


Andante  Con  Moto — Fifth  85 

Rhapsody,  the  Swan  Song  and  the  Evening  Star,  and 
finally  Isolde's  Triumph  over  Death — these  were  ascend- 
ings,  indeed — to  the  point  of  wings. 

The  stops  so  formidable  at  first  became  as  stars  in  the 
dark.  .  .  .  Little  loves,  little  fears  and  sins  and  hopes 
were  all  he  had  known  before ;  and  now  he  entered  into 
the  torrential  temperaments  of  the  masters — magnificent 
and  terrifying  souls  who  dared  to  sin  against  God,  or 
die  defying  man ;  whose  passions  stormed  the  world ; 
whose  dirges  were  wrung  from  heaven.  Why,  these  men 
levelled  emperors  and  aspired  to  angels,  violated  them 
selves,  went  mad  with  music,  played  with  hell's  own 
dissonances,  and  dared  to  transcribe  their  baptisms,  illu 
minations,  temptations,  Gethsemanes,  even  their  revilings 
and  stigmata. 

The  dirges  lifted  him  to  immensity  from  which  the 
abysses  of  the  world  spread  themselves  below.  Two 
marches  of  Chopin,  and  the  death-march  of  Siegfried, 
the  haunting  suggestion  of  a  soul's  preparation  for  de 
parture  in  Schubert's  Unfinished;  the  Death  of  Aase,  the 
Pilgrim's  Chorus,  one  of  Mozart's  requiems,  and  that 
Napoleonic  funebre  from  the  Eroica — these,  with 
others,  grouped  themselves  into  an  unearthly  archipelago 
— towering  cliffs  of  glorious  gloom,  white  birds  silently 
sweeping  the  gray  solitudes  above  the  breakers.  .  .  . 

It  was  during  the  four  days  while  Captain  Carreras 
remained  in  Coral  City  with  Jaffier,  that  Bedient  entered 
into  the  mysterious  enchantment  of  the  Andante  move 
ment  of  Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony.  He  had  played  it 
all,  forgetting  almost  to  breathe,  and  then  returned  to  the 
second  movement  which  opens  with  the  'celli : 

a 

Dotct. 


86  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Again  and  again  it  unfolded  for  him,  but  not  its  full 
message.  There  was  a  meaning  in  it  for  him!  He  heard 
it  in  the  night ;  three  voices  in  it — a  man,  a  woman  and  a 
soul.  .  .  .  The  lustrous  third  Presence  was  an  angel 
— there  for  the  sake  of  the  woman.  She  was  in  the 
depths,  but  great  enough  to  summon  the  angel  to  her 
tragedy.  The  man's  figure  was  obscure,  disintegrate. 
.  .  .  Bedient  realized  in  part  at  least  that  this  was 
destined  to  prove  his  greatest  musical  experience.  .  . 

Captain  Carreras  found  much  to  do  in  the  city,  but 
he  did  not  tell  Bedient  that  the  real  reason  for  his  remain 
ing  four  days  was  that  he  couldn't  sooner  summon  cour 
age  for  the  long  ride  home.  He  spoke  but  little  regarding 
the  reasons  Jaffier  had  called  him, 

"  He's  afraid  of  Celestino  Rey,  and  likely  has  good 
reason,"  said  the  Captain  wearily.  "  The  old  pirate  is 
half-dead  below  the  knees,  but  his  ugly  ambition  still 
burns  bright.  He  thinks  he  ought  to  be  drawing  all  the 
Island  tributes,  instead  of  the  government.  Jaffier  ex 
pects  assassination.  On  this  point,  it  would  be  well  to 
watch  for  the  death  of  Rey.  These  two  old  hell-weathered 
Spaniards  are  worth  watching — each  tossing  spies  over 
the  other's  fences,  and  openly  conducting  affairs  with 
melting  courtesy  toward  each  other — but  I  don't  seem  to 
have  much  appetite  for  the  game.  There  was  a  time  when 
I  would  have  stopped  work  and  helped  Jaffier  whip  this 
fellow.  But  I  hardly  think  he'll  take  our  harvests  and 
the  river-beds  just  yet " 

They  talked  late.  The  Captain  alternated  from  his 
bed  to  a  chair,  seemed  unwilling  for  Bedient  to  leave  and 
unable  to  sleep  or  find  ease  anywhere.  He  was  over 
tired,  he  explained,  and  hearing  about  Bedient's  experi 
ence  with  the  Andante  con  moto,  insisted  upon  it  being 
played  that  night.  .  .  . 

"  It's  very  soothing,"  Carreras  said,  when  Andrew 
returned  to  the  upper  apartment.  "  I  think  I  can  sleep 
now.  Off  to  bed  with  you,  lad." 


Andante  Con  Moto— Fifth  87 

So  lightly  did  Bedient  sleep,  however, — for  the  music 
haunted  his  brain, — that  he  was  aroused  by  the  bare  feet 
of  a  servant  in  the  hall-way,  before  the  latter  touched 
his  door  to  call  him.  Captain  Carreras  had  asked  for  him. 
The  glow  of  dawn  was  in  the  old  man's  quarters,  and  he 
smiled  in  a  queer,  complacent  way  from  his  bed,  as  if  a 
long-looked-for  solution  to  some  grave  problem  had  come 
in  the  night,  and  he  wanted  his  friend  to  guess.  A  hand 
lifted  from  the  coverlet,  and  Bedient's  sped  to  it ;  yet  he 
saw  that  something  more  was  wanted.  The  Captain's 
shoulder  nudged  a  little,  and  the  smile  had  become  wist 
ful.  He  did  not  fail  to  understand  the  need,  but  other 
realizations  were  pressing  into  his  brain.  So  the  Cap 
tain  nudged  his  shoulder  again  bashfully.  Bedient  bent 
and  took  him  in  his  arms. 

It  was  death.  Bedient  had  known  it  from  the  first 
instant  of  entering,  but  he  was  not  prepared.  He  could 
not  speak — only  look  into  the  tender,  glowing  smile. 
Captain  Carreras  finally  turned  his  eyes  into  the  morning : 

"  You  know  it  was  very  foolish  of  me — very — to  think 
I  could  make  you  happy,  Andrew,  with  all  these  riches," 
he  said  at  last,  not  thickly,  but  very  low,  as  if  he  had 
saved  strength  for  what  he  wished  to  say.  ..."  You 
were  a  long  time  coming,  but  I  knew  you  would  come — 
knew  it  would  be  just  like  this — in  your  arms.  Queer, 
isn't  it  ?  And  all  the  waiting  years,  I  kept  piling  up  lands 
and  money,  saying :  '  This  shall  be  his  when  he  comes.' 
.  .  .  It  was  a  little  hard  at  first  to  know  you  didn't 
care — you  couldn't  care — that  one,  and  ten,  were  all  the 
same  to  you.  And  last  night,  I  saw  it  all  again.  Had  I 
brought  you  word  that  Celestino  Rey  had  the  govern 
ment  and  that  confiscation  of  these  lands  were  inevitable, 
you  would  never  have  compared  it  in  importance  with 
finding  that  part  of  the  symphony.  It's  all  right.  I 
wouldn't  have  it  changed.  .  .  ." 

Andrew  listened  with  bowed  head,  patting  the  Cap 
tain's  shoulder  gently,  as  he  sustained. 


88  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  But  I  have  given  you  more  than  money,  boy.  And 
this  you  know — as  a  man,  who  knew  money  better,  could 
never  understand.  I  have  given  you  an  old  man's  love 
for  a  son — but  more  than  that,  too, — something  of  the 
old  man's  love  for  the  mother  of  his  son.  ...  I 
thought  only  women  had  the  delicacy  and  fineness — 
you  have  'shown  me,  sir.  .  .  .  It  is  all  done,  and 
you  have  made  me  very  glad  for  these  years — since  the 
great  wind  failed  to  get  us " 

Then  he  mingled  silences  with  sentences  that  finally 
became  aimless — seas,  ships,  cooks,  and  the  boy  who  had 
nipped  him  from  the  post  he  meant  to  hold — and  a  final 
genial  blending  of  goats  and  symphonies,  on  the  borders 
of  the  Crossing.  Then  he  nestled,  and  Bedient  felt  the 
hand  he  had  taken,  try  to  sense  his  own  through  the 
gathering  cold.  ...  It  was  very  easy  and  beautiful 
— and  so  brief  that  Bedient's  arm  was  not  even  tired. 

An  hour  afterward,  Falk  came  in  for  orders — and 
withdrew. 

Bedient  had  merely  nodded  to  him  from  the  depths 
of  contemplation.  ...  At  last,  he  heard  the  weeping 
of  the  house-servants.  And  there  was  one  low  wailing 
tone  that  startled  him  with  the  memory  of  the  Sikh 
woman  who  had  wept  for  old  Gobind. 


EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

THE  MAN  FROM  THE  PLEIAD 

BEDIENT  drew  from  Falk  a  few  days  afterward  that 
the  Captain  had  planned  almost  exactly  as  it  happened. 
Since  the  beginnings  of  unrest  in  Equatoria,  he  had  trans 
ferred  his  banking  to  New  York ;  so  that  in  the  event  of 
defeat  in  war,  only  the  lands  and  hacienda  would  revert, 
upon  the  fall  of  the  present  government.  Falk  could  not 
remember  (and  his  services  dated  back  fifteen  years,  at 
which  time  he  left  Surrey  with  the  Captain)  when  the 
master  did  not  speak  of  Bedient's  coming. 

"  But  for  your  letters,  sir,  Leadley  and  I  would  have 
come  to  think  of  you  as — as  just  one  of  the  master's 
ways,  Mister  Andrew." 

Falk  was  a  middle-aged  serving-class  Englishman, 
highly  trained  and  without  humor.  Leadley,  the  cook, 
and  a  power  in  his  department,  dated  also  from  Surrey, 
which  was  his  county.  These  men  had  learned  to  handle 
the  natives  to  a  degree,  and  the  entire  responsibility  of 
the  establishment  had  fallen  upon  them  during  the 
absences  of  the  Captain.  As  chief  of  house-servants  and 
as  cook,  these  two  at  their  best  were  faultless,  but  the 
life  was  very  easy,  and  they  were  given  altogether  too 
many  hands  to  help.  Moreover,  Falk  and  Leadley  be 
longed  to  that  queer  human  type  which  proceeds  to  burn 
itself  out  with  alcohol  if  left  alone.  The  latter  years  of 
such  servants  become  a  steady  battle  to  keep  sober  enough 
for  service.  Each  man  naturally  believed  himself  an 
admirable  drinker. 

Natives  came  from  the  entire  Island  to  smoke  and 
drink  and  weep  for  the  Captain.  Dictator  Jaffier  sent 
his  "  abject  bereavement "  by  pony  pack-train,  which, 
having  formed  in  a  sort  of  hollow  square,  received  the 
thanks  of  Bedient,  and  assurances  that  his  policy  would 

89 


90  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

continue  in  the  delightful  groove  worn  by  the  late  best 
of  men.  The  reply  of  Jaffier  was  the  offer  of  a  public 
funeral  in  Coral  City,  but  Bedient  declined  this,  and  the 
body  of  his  friend  was  turned  toward  the  East  upon  the 
shoulder  of  his  highest  hill.  .  .  . 

Presently  Bedient  read  the  Captain's  documents.  Falk 
and  Leadley  were  bountifully  cared  for ;  scores  of  natives 
were  remembered ;  the  policy  toward  Jaffier  outlined 
according  to  the  best  experience ;  and  the  bulk,  name, 
lands,  bonds,  capital  and  all — "  to  my  beloved  young 
friend,  Andrew  Bedient."  ...  At  the  request  and 
expense  of  the  latter,  the  New  York  bankers  sent  down 
an  agent  to  verify  the  transfer  of  this  great  fortune. 
A  month  passed — a  foretaste  of  what  was  to  come.  Be 
dient,  prepared  for  greater  work  than  this,  was  lonely  in 
the  sunlight. 

He  knew  that  he  must  soon  begin  to  live  his  own  life. 
His  every  faculty  was  deeply  urging.  Equatoria  had  little 
to  do  with  the  realities  for  which  he  had  gathered  more 
than  thirty  years'  equipment.  He  felt  a  serious  responsi 
bility  toward  his  fortune,  though  absolutely  without  the 
thrill  of  personal  possession.  The  just  administration  of 
these  huge  forces  formed  no  little  part  of  his  work,  and  in 
his  entire  thinking  on  this  subject,  New  York  stood  most 
directly  in  the  need  of  service.  It  was  there  that  the 
Captain's  accumulated  vitality  must  be  used  for  good. 

Early  in  the  second  month,  Bedient  came  in  at  noon 
from  a  long  ride  across  the  lands,  and  reaching  the  great 
porch  of  the  hacienda,  he  turned  to  observe  a  tropic 
shower  across  the  valley.  The  torrent  approached  at  ex 
press  speed.  It  was  a  clean-cut  pouring,  several  acres  in 
extent.  Bedient  watched  it  fill  the  spaces  between  the  lit 
tle  hills,  sweep  from  crest  to  crest,  and  bring  out  a 
subdued  glow  in  the  wild  verdure  as  it  swept  across  the 
main  valley.  Sharp  was  the  line  of  dry  sunlit  air  and 
gray  slanting  shower.  Presently  he  heard  its  pounding, 
and  the  dustless  slopes  rolled  into  the  gray.  .  .  .  Now 


The  Man  From  The  Pleiad  91 

he  sniffed  the  acute  fragrance  that  rushed  before  it  in  the 
wind,  and  then  it  climbed  the  drive,  deluged  the  hacienda, 
and  was  gone.  ...  In  the  moist,  sweet,  yellow  light 
that  filled  his  eyes,  Bedient,  fallen  into  deeps  of  con 
templation,  saw  the  face  of  a  woman. 

He  went  inside  and  looked  up  the  Dryden  sailings. 
The  Hatteras  would  clear,  according  to  schedule,  in  ten 
days.  That  meant  that  the  Henlopen  was  now  in  port. 
His  eyes  had  looked  first  for  the  former,  since  it  had 
brought  him  down,  and  was  the  Captain's  favorite. 
.  .  .  Yes,  the  Henlopen  was  due  to  sail  to-morrow  at 
daylight.  .  .  .  He  told  Falk  he  would  go.  .  .  . 
In  that  upper  room  across  from  his  own,  he  bowed  his 
head  for  a  space,  and  the  fragrance  still  there  brought 
back  the  heaving  cabin  of  the  Truxton.  .  .  .  Then 
he  rode  down  to  Coral  City  in  the  last  hours  of  daylight. 

His  devoirs  were  paid  to  Dictator  Jaffier,  who  con 
fided  that  he  had  purchased  a  gun-boat  and  search-light 
on  behalf  of  the  government.  Its  delivery  was  but  ten 
days  off,  and  with  it  he  expected  to  keep  that  old  sea- 
fighter,  Celestino  Rey,  better  in  order.  .  .  .  Bedient 
had  the  evening  to  himself.  In  one  of  the  Calle  Real 
cafes,  he  was  attracted  by  the  face  and  figure  of  a  young 
white  man,  of  magnificent  proportions  and  remarkably 
clean-cut  profile.  The  stranger  sipped  iced  claret,  watched 
the  natives  moving  about,  and  seemed  occasionally  to 
forget  himself  in  his  thinking. 

He  looked  more  than  ever  a  giant  in  the  midst  of  the 
little  tropical  people,  and  seemed  to  feel  his  size  in  the 
general  diminutive  setting.  Yet  there  was  balance  and 
fitness  about  his  splendid  physical  organization,  which 
suggested  that  he  could  be  quick  as  a  mink  in  action.  He 
chaffed  the  native  who  waited  upon  him,  and  his  face 
softened  into  charming  boyishness  as  he  laughed.  His 
mouth  was  fresh  as  a  child's,  but  on  a  scale  of  grandeur. 
Bedient  found  himself  smiling  with  him.  Then  there  was 
that  irresistible  folding  about  the  eyes  when  he  laughed, 


92  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

which  is  Irish  as  sin,  and  quite  as  attractive.  Left  to  him 
self  he  fell  to  brooding,  and  his  brow  puzzled  over  some 
matter  in  the  frank  bored  way  of  one  pinned  to  a  text 
book.  Bedient  sat  down  at  the  other's  table.  Acquaint 
ance  was  as  agreeably  received  as  offered. 

The  stranger's  name  was  Jim  Framtree.  He  had 
been  on  the  Island  for  several  weeks,  and  intended  to 
stay  for  awhile.  He  liked  Equatoria  well  enough — as 
well,  in  fact,  as  a  man  could  like  any  place,  when  he  was 
barred  from  the  real  trophy-room  in  the  house  of  the 
world,  New  York. 

"  I'm  sailing  for  New  York  in  the  morning,"  Bedient 
said. 

Framtree  shivered  and  fell  silent. 

"You've  found  work  that  you  like  here?"  Bedient 
asked  simply. 

The  other  glanced  at  him  humorously,  and  yet  with 
a  bit  of  intensity,  too, — as  if  searching  for  the  meaning 
under  such  an  unadorned  question. 

"  I  seem  to  have  caught  on  with  Seiior  Rey  at  The 
Pleiad,"  he  replied. 

"  Ah " 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  making  a  mistake,  sir,"  Framtree 
added  quickly.  "  I'm  not  barred  from  New  York  on  any 
cashier  matter.  You  know  when  something  you  want 
badly — and  can't  have — is  in  a  town — that  isn't  the  place 
for  you.  .  .  .  Even  if  you  like  that  town  best  on 
earth.  .  .  .  What  I  mean  is,  I'm  not  using  The 
Pleiad  as  a  hiding  proposition." 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  Bedient  said. 

"  I  suppose  it  would  be  natural — down  here " 

"  But  I  saw  you  first." 

"  Um-m." 

"  I  was  only  thinking,"  Bedient  resumed,  "  that  if  the 
establishment  of  Senor  Rey  palled  upon  you  at  any  time, 
I'd  like  to  have  you  come  up  and  see  me  in  the  hills. 
.  .  .  I'd  be  glad  to  have  you  come,  anyway.  I  may 
not  be  very  long  in  New  York " 


The  Man  From  The  Pleiad  93 

"  That's  mighty  good  of  you,"  Framtree  declraed, 
and  yet  it  was  obvious  that  he  could  not  regard  the  invi 
tation  as  purely  a  friendly  impulse,  even  if  he  wished  to. 
"  I  remember  now.  I've  heard  of  your  big  place  up 
there." 

"  Perhaps,  I'd  better  explain  that  I  wasn't  thinking  of 
Island  politics — when  I  asked  you.  .  .  .  Queer  how 
one  has  to  explain  things  down  here.  I've  noticed  that 
it's  hard  for  folks  to  go  straight  at  a  thing." 

Framtree  laughed  again,  and  tried  hard  to  understand 
what  was  in  the  other's  mind.  Bedient's  simplicity  was 
too  deep  for  him.  They  talked  for  an  hour,  each  sin 
gularly  attracted,  but  evading  any  subject  that  would 
call  in  the  matters  of  political  unrest.  Each  felt  that 
the  other  wanted  to  be  square,  but  Bedient  saw  that  it 
would  be  useless  to  impress  upon  Framtree  how  little 
hampered  he  was  by  Jaffier.  ...  At  daybreak  the 
next  morning,  the  fruity  old  Henlopen  pointed  out  toward 
the  reefs,  and  presently  was  nudging  her  way  through 
the  coral  passage,  as  confidently  as  if  the  trick  of  getting 
to  sea  from  Coral  City  was  part  of  the  weathered  con 
sciousness  of  her  boilers  and  plates. 


II 

NEW  YORK 

Andante  con  moto 


NINTH   CHAPTER 


BEDIENT  went  directly  to  the  house-number  of  David 
Cairns  in  West  Sixty-seventh  Street,  without  telephon 
ing  for  an  appointment.  It  happened  that  the  time  of  his 
arrival  was  unfortunate.  Something  of  this  he  caught, 
first  from  the  look  of  the  elevator  attendant,  who  took 
him  to  the  tenth  floor  of  a  modern  studio-building;  and 
further  from  the  man-servant  who  answered  his  ring  at 
the  Cairns  apartment. 

"  Mr.  Cairns  sees  no  one  before  two  o'clock,  sir," 
said  the  latter,  whose  cool  eye  took  in  the  caller. 

Bedient  hesitated.  It  was  now  twelve-forty-five.  He 
felt  that  Cairns  would  be  hurt  if  he  went  away.  "  Tell 
him  that  Andrew  Bedient  is  here,  and  that  I  shall  be 
glad  to  wait  or  call  again,  just  as  he  prefers." 

And  now  the  servant  hesitated.  "  It  is  very  seldom 
we  disturb  him,  sir.  Most  of  his  friends  understand  that 
he  is  not  available  between  nine  and  two." 

Bedient  was  embarrassed.  The  morning  in  the  city 
had  preyed  upon  him.  Realizing  his  discomfort,  and 
the  petty  causes  of  it,  he  became  unwilling  to  leave. 
"  I  am  not  of  New  York  and  could  not  know.  I  think 
you'd  better  tell  Mr.  Cairns  and  let  him  judge " 

The  servant  had  reached  the  same  conclusion.  Be 
dient  was  shown  into  a  small  room,  furnished  with  much 
that  was  peculiarly  metropolitan  to  read.  .  .  .  He 
rather  expected  Cairns  to  rush  from  some  interior,  and 
waited  ten  minutes,  glancing  frequently  at  the  door 
through  which  the  servant  had  left.  .  .  .  His  heart 
had  bounded  at  the  thought  of  seeing  David,  and  he 
smiled  at  his  own  hurt.  ...  A  door  opened  behind 
him.  The  writer  came  forward  quietly,  with  warm  dig 
nity,  caught  him  by  both  shoulders  and  smilingly  searched 
7  C97 


98  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

his  eyes.     Bedient  was  all  kindness  again.     "  Doubtless 

his  friends  come  in  from  Asia  often,"  he  thought. 

"  Andrew,    it's    ripping    good    to    see    you.    .     .    ». 

Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were  coming?" 
"  I  didn't  want  you  to  alter  your  ways  at  all." 

"  You  see,  I  have  to  keep  these  morning  hours " 

"  Go  back — I'll  wait  gladly,  or  call  when  you  like." 
"  Don't  go  away,  pray,  unless  there  is  something  you 

must  do  for  the  next  hour  or  so." 

In  waiting,  Bedient  did  not  allow  himself  to  search 
for  anything  theatric  or  unfeeling  at  the  centre  of  the 
episode.  Cairns  had  moved  in  many  of  the  world  atmos 
pheres,  and  had  done  some  work  which  the  world  noted 
with  approval.  Moreover,  he  had  called  from  Bedient 
bestowals  of  friendship  which  could  not  be  forgotten. 
.  .  .  "  I  have  been  alone  and  in  the  quiet  so  much  that 
7  can  remember,"  Bedient  mused,  "  while  he  has  been 
rushing  about  from  action  to  action.  Then  New  York 
would  rub  out  anybody's  old  impressions." 

As  the  clock  struck,  Cairns  appeared  ready  for  the 
street.  He  was  a  trifle  drawn  about  the  mouth,  and 
irritated.  Having  been  unable  to  work  in  the  past  hour, 
the  day  was  amiss,  for  he  hated  a  broken  session  and  an 
allotment  of  space  unfilled.  Still,  Cairns  did  not  permit 
the  other  to  see  his  displeasure ;  and  the  distress  which 
Bedient  felt,  he  attributed  to  New  York,  and  not  the  New 
Yorker.  .  .  . 

The  mind  of  David  Cairns  had  acquired  that  culti 
vated  sense  of  authority  which  comes  from  constantly 
being  printed.  He  was  a  much-praised  young  man.  His 
mental  films  were  altogether  too  many,  and  they  had  been 
badly  developed  for  the  insatiable  momentary  markets  to 
which  timeliness  is  all.  Very  much,  he  needed  quiet 
years  to  synthesize  and  appraise  his  materials.  .  .  . 
Bedient,  he  regarded  as  a  luxury,  and  just  at  this  moment, 


The  Long-A waited  Woman  99 

he  was  not  in  the  mood  for  one.  Cairns  drove  himself 
and  his  work,  forgetting  that  the  fuller  artist  is  driven. 
.  .  .  Luzon  and  pack-train  memories  were  dim  in  his 
mind.  He  did  not  forget  that  he  had  won  his  first  name 
in  that  field,  but  he  did  forget  for  a  time  the  wonderful 
night-talks.  A  multitude  of  impressions  since,  had  dis 
ordered  these  delicate  and  formative  hours.  Only  now, 
in  his  slow-rousing  heart  he  felt  a  restlessness,  a  breath 
of  certain  lost  delights. 

It  was  a  sappy  May  day.  The  spring  had  been  late — 
held  long  in  wet  and  frosty  fingers — and  here  was  the  first 
flood  of  moist  warmth  to  stir  the  Northern  year  into  crea 
tion.  Cairns  was  better  after  a  brisk  walk.  Housed  for 
long,  unprofitable  hours,  everything  had  looked  slaty  at 
first. 

"  Where  are  you  staying,  Andrew  ?  " 

"  Marigold." 

"Why  do  you  live  'way  down  there?  That's  a  part 
of  town  for  business  hours  only.  The  heart  of  things 
has  been  derricked  up  here." 

"  I'm  very  sure  of  a  welcome  there,"  Bedient  ex 
plained.  "  My  old  friend  Captain  Carreras  had  Room  50, 
from  time  to  time  for  so  many  years,  that  I  fell  into  it 
with  his  other  properties.  Besides,  all  the  pirates,  island 
kings  and  prosperous  world-tramps  call  at  the  Marigold. 
And  then,  they  say — the  best  dinner " 


"  That's  a  tradition  of  the  Forty-niners- 


"  I  have  no  particular  reason  for  staying  down  there, 
even  if  I  keep  the  room.  I'll  do  that  for  the  Captain's 
sake.  .  .  .  I'm  not  averse  to  breezing  around  up 
town." 

"Ah "  came  softly  from  Cairns. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  some  folks/'  Bedient  admitted. 

Cairns  was  smiling  at  hint.  "  You'll  have  to  have  a 
card  at  my  clubs.  There's  Teuton's,  Swan's  and  the 
Smila.v  down  Gramercy  way.  .  .  .  Perhaps  we'd  bet- 


100  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

ter  stop  in  at  the  Swan's  for  a  bite  to  eat.  The  idea  is, 
you  can  try  them  all,  Andrew,  and  put  up  at  the  one  you 
fit  into  best " 

"Exactly,"  breathed  Bedient. 

"  You  won't  like  the  Smilax  overmuch,"  Cairns  vent 
ured,  "  but  you  may  pass  a  forenoon  there,  while  I'm  at 
work.  Stately  old  place,  with  many  paintings  and  virgin 
silence.  The  women  artists  are  going  there  more  and 
more " 

"  I  like  paintings,"  said  Bedient. 

They  walked  across  Times  Square  and  toward  the 
Avenue,  through  Forty-second.  Cairns  waited  for  the 
quiet  to  ask: 

"  Andrew,  you  haven't  found  Her  yet — The 
Woman?" 

"No.    Have  you?" 

"Did — I  used  to  have  one,  too?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Andrew,  do  you  think  She's  in  New  York  ? " 
Cairns  asked. 

"  It's  rather  queer  about  that,"  Bedient  answered. 
"  I  was  watching  a  rain-storm  from  the  porch  of  the 
hacienda  seven  or  eight  days  ago,  when  it  came  to  me 
that  I'd  better  take  the  first  ship  up.  I  sailed  the  next 
morning." 

This  startled  Cairns.  He  was  unaccustomed  to  such 
sincerity.  "  You  mean  it  occurred  to  you  that  She  was 
here — the  One  you  used  to  tell  me  about  in  Asia  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Cairns  now  felt  an  untimely  eagerness  of  welcome  for 
the  wanderer.  A  renewal  of  Bedient's  former  attractions 
culminated  in  his  mind,  and  something  more  that  was 
fine  and  fresh  and  permanent.  He  twinged  for  what  had 
happened  at  the  apartment.  .  .  .  Bedient  was  a 
man's  man,  strong  as  a  platoon  in  a  pinch — that  had 
been  proved.  He  was  plain  as  a  sailor  in  ordinary  talk, 
but  Cairns  knew  now  that  he  had  only  begun  to  chal- 


The  Long-A waited  Woman  101 

lenge  Bedient's  finer  possessions  of  mind.  .  .  .  Here 
in  New  York,  a  man  over  thirty  years  old,  who  could 
speak  of  the  Woman-who-must-be-somewhere.  And  Be- 
dient  spoke  in  the  same  ideal,  unhurt  way  of  twenty, 
when  they  had  spread  blankets  together  under  strange 
stars.  .  .  .  Cairns  knew  in  a  flash  that  something 
was  gone  from  his  own  breast  that  he  had  carried  then. 
It  was  an  altogether  uncommon  moment  to  him.  "  So  it 
has  not  all  been  growth,"  he  thought.  "  All  that  has  come 
since  has  not  been  fineness."  .  .  .  He  felt  a  bit  de 
filed,  as  if  New  York  had  "  gotten  "  to  him,  as  if  he 
had  lost  a  young  prince's  vision,  that  the  queen  mother 
had  given  him  on  setting  out.  .  .  .  He  was  just  one 
of  the  million  males,  feathering  nests  of  impermanence, 
and  stifling  the  true  hunger  for  the  skies  and  the  great 
cleansing  migratory  flights.  .  .  . 

All  this  was  a  miracle  to  David  Cairns.  He  was 
solid;  almost  English  in  his  up-bringing  to  believe  that 
man's  work,  and  established  affairs,  thoughts  and  sys 
tems  generally  were  right  and  unimpeachable.  He  heard 
himself  scoffing  at  such  a  thing,  had  it  happened  to  an 
other.  .  .  .  He  stared  into  Bedient's  face,  brown, 
bright  and  calm.  He  had  seen  only  good  humor  and 
superb  health  before,  but  for  an  instant  now,  he  perceived 
a  spirit  that  rode  with  buoyancy,  after  a  life  of  loneliness 
and  terror  that  would  have  sunk  most  men's  anchorage, 
fathoms  deeper  than  the  reach  of  the  longest  cable  of 
faith. 

"  I  think  I'm  getting  to  be — just  a  biped.  .  .  . 
I'm  glad  you  came  up.  .  .  .  Here  we  are  at  Swan's'' 
said  Cairns. 

Like  most  writers,  David  Cairns  was  intensely  inter 
esting  to  himself.  His  sudden  reversal  from  bleak  self- 
complacence  to  a  clear-eyed  view  of  his  questionable  ap 
proaches  to  real  worth,  was  strong  with  bitterness,  but 
deeply  absorbing.  He  was  remarkable  in  his  capacity  to 


102  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

follow  this  opening  of  his  own  insignificance.  It  had 
been  slow  coming,  but  ruthlessly  now,  he  traced  his  way 
back  from  one  breach  to  another,  and  finally  to  that 
night  in  the  plaza  at  Alphonso,  when  he  had  been  enabled 
to  see  service  from  a  unique  and  winning  angle,  through 
the  pack-train  cook.  That  was  the  key  to  his  catching  on ; 
that,  and  his  boy  ideals  of  war  had  lifted  his  copy  from 
the  commonplace.  He  remembered  Bedient  in  China, 
in  Japan,  and  in  his  own  house — how  grudgingly  he  had 
appeared  in  his  working  hours.  He  felt  like  an  office- 
boy  who  has  made  some  pert  answer  to  an  employer  too 
big  and  kind  to  notice.  Now  and  then  up  the  years,  cer 
tain  warm  thoughts  had  come  to  him  from  those  island 
nights,  but  he  had  forgotten  their  importance  in  gaining 
his  so-called  standing. 

Andrew  Bedient  was  nothing  like  the  man  he  had 
expected  to  find.  He  remembered  now  that  he  might 
have  looked  for  these  rare  elements  of  character,  since  the 
boyhood  talks  had  promised  them,  and  power  had  ema 
nated  from  them.  .  .  .  Still,  Bedient  had  grown  mar 
vellously,  in  strange,  deep  ways.  Cairns  could  not  fathom 
them  all,  but  he  realized  that  nothing  better  could  happen 
to  him  than  to  study  this  man.  Indeed,  his  mind  was  fas 
cinated  in  following  the  rich  leads  of  his  friend's  re 
sources.  He  consoled  himself  for  his  shortcomings  with 
the  thought  that,  at  least,  he  was  ready  to  see.  .  .  . 

They  talked  as  of  old,  far  into  the  night.  Cairns 
found  himself  endeavoring  with  a  swift,  nervous  eager 
ness  to  show  his  best  to  Andrew  Bedient,  and  to  be  judged 
by  that  best.  He  spoke  of  none  of  the  achievements 
which  the  world  granted  to  be  his ;  instead,  the  little 
byway  humanities  were  called  forth,  for  the  other  to  hear 
— buds  of  thought  and  action,  which  other  pressures  had 
kept  from  fertilizing  into  seed — the  very  things  he  would 
have  delighted  in  relating  to  a  dear,  wise  woman.  Some 
thing  about  Bedient  called  them  forth,  and  Cairns  fell 
into  new  depths.  "  I  thought  it  was  pure  sex-challenge 


The  Long-A waited  Woman  103 

which  made  a  man  bring  these  things  to  a  woman."  (This 
is  the  way  he  developed  the  idea  afterward.)  "  But  that 
can't  be  all,  since  I  unfolded  so  to  Bedient.  .  .  .  He 
has  me  going  in  all  directions  like  a  steam-shovel." 

Cairns  was  arranging  a  little  party  for  his  friend.  In 
the  meantime,  his  productive  quantity  sank  from  torrent 
to  trickle.  His  secretary,  who  knew  the  processes  of 
the  writer's  mind  as  the  keys  of  his  machine,  and  had 
adjusted  his  own  brain  to  them  through  many  brisk 
sessions,  fell  now  through  empty  space.  He  had 
no  resources  in  this  room,  where  he  had  been  driven 
so  long  by  the  mental  force  of  another.  Having  suffered 
himself  to  be  played  upon,  like  the  instrument  before 
him,  he  died  many  deaths  from  ennui.  ...  So  Cairns 
and  the  secretary  stared  helplessly  at  each  other  across 
the  emptiness ;  and  New  York  rushed  on,  with  its  mad 
business,  singing  spitefully  in  their  ears :  "  You  for  the 
poor-farms.  You'll  lose  your  front,  and  your  markets. 
Your  income  is  suffering;  the  presses  are  waiting; 
editors  dependent.  ..." 

Cairns  left  the  house  on  the  third  morning  after 
Bedient's  coming,  having  dictated  two  or  three  letters. 
.  .  .  Bedient  was  across  the  street  from  the  Smilax 
Club  in  the  little  fenced-in  park — Gramercy.  Cairns  told 
his  work-difficulty. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  good  for  you,  David," 
Bedient  asked,  "to  let  the  subconscious  catch  up?" 

Cairns  was  interested  at  once.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

*'  I've  been  thinking  more  than  a  little  about  you 
and  New  York.  One  thing  is  sure :  New  York  is  pretty 
much  wrong,  or  I'm  insane " 

"  You're  happy  about  it,"  Cairns  remarked.  "  Tell  me 
the  worst." 

"  People  here  use  their  reflectors  and  not  their  genera 
tors,"  Bedient  said.  "  They  shine  with  another's  light, 
when  they  should  be  incandescent.  The  brain  in  your 


104  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

skull,  in  any  man's  skull,  is  but  a  reflector,  an  instrument 
of  his  deeper  mind.  There's  your  genius,  infinitely  wiser 
than  your  brain.  It's  your  sun ;  your  brain,  the  moon. 
All  great  work  comes  from  the  subconscious  mind.  You 
and  New  York  use  too  much  moonshine." 

Both  men  were  smiling,  but  to  Cairns,  nevertheless,  it 
seemed  that  his  own  conscience  had  awakened  after  a 
long  sleep.  This  wanderer  from  the  seas  had  twigged 
the  brain  brass  which  he  had  long  been  passing  for  gold 
value.  He  saw  many  bits  of  his  recent  work,  as  prod 
ucts  of  intellectual  foppery.  He  recalled  a  letter  recently 
received  from  an  editor ;  which  read :  "  That  last  article 
of  yours  has  caught  on.  Do  six  more  like  it."  He  hadn't 
felt  the  stab  before.  He  had  done  the  six — multiplied 
his  original  idea  by  mechanical  means.  .  .  . 

All  things  considered,  it  was  rather  an  important 
affair — the  party  that  night  at  the  Smilax  Club.  Cairns 
began  with  the  idea  of  asking  ten  people,  but  the  more  he 
studied  Bedient's  effect  upon  himself,  the  more  particu 
lar  he  became  about  the  "  atmosphere."  Just  the  men 
he  wanted  were  out  of  reach,  so  he  asked  none  at  all, 
but  five  women.  Four  of  these  he  would  have  grouped 
into  a  sentence  as  "  the  most  interesting  women  in  New 
York,"  and  the  fifth  was  a  romantic  novelty  in  a  minor 
key,  sort  of  "  in  the  air  "  at  the  Club. 

So  there  were  seven  to  sit  down  to  the  round  table  in 
the  historic  Plate  Room.  The  curving  walls  were  fitted 
with  a  lining  of  walnut  cabinets.  Visible  through  their 
leaded-glass  doors,  were  ancient  services  of  gold  and 
silver  and  pewter.  The  table  streamed  with  light,  but  the 
faces  and  cabinets  were  in  shadow.  .  .  .  Directly 
across  from  Bedient  sat  Beth  Truba,  the  most  brilliant 
woman  his  visioning  eyes  ever  developed. 

The  sight  of  her  was  the  perfect  stimulus,  an  elixir 
too  volatile  to  be  drunk,  rather  to  be  breathed.  Bedient 
felt  the  door  of  his  inner  chambers  swing  open  before 
fragrant  winds.  The  heart  of  him  became  greatly  alive, 


The  Long-A waited  Woman  105 

and  his  brain  in  grand  tune.  It  is  true,  she  played  upon 
his  faculties,  as  the  Hindus  play  upon  the  vina,  that 
strange,  sensitive,  oriental  harp  with  a  dozen  strings,  of 
which  the  musician  touches  but  one.  The  other  strings 
through  sympathetic  vibration  furnish  an  undertone 
almost  like  an  seolian  harmony.  You  must  listen  in  a 
still  place  to  catch  the  mystic  accompaniment.  So  it  was 
in  Bedient's  mind.  Beth  Truba  played  upon  the  single 
string,  and  the  others  glorified  her  with  their  shadings. 
And  the  plaint  from  all  humanity  was  in  that  undertone, 
as  if  to  keep  him  sweet. 

She  was  in  white.  "  See  the  slim  iceberg  with  the 
top  afire !  "  Cairns  had  whispered,  as  she  entered.  Other 
lives  must  explain  it,  but  the  Titian  hair  went  straight 
to  his  heart.  And  those  wine-dark  eyes,  now  cryptic 
black,  now  suffused  with  red  glows  like  a  night-sky  above 
a  prairie-fire,  said  to  him,  "  Better  come  .over  and  see  if 
I'm  tamable." 

"  I  can  see,  it's  just  the  place  I  wanted  to  be  to 
night,"  she  said,  taking  her  chair.  "  We're  going  to 
have  such  a  good  time!" 

And  Kate  Wilkes  drawled  this  comment  to  Cairns: 
"  In  other  words,  Beth  says,  '  Bring  on  your  lion,  for  I'm 
the  original  wild  huntress.'  " 

Kates  Wilkes  was  a  tall  tanned  woman  rather  vari 
ously  weathered,  and  more  draped  than  dressed.  She 
conducted  departments  of  large  feminine  interest  in  sev 
eral  periodicals,  and  was  noted  among  the  "  emancipated 
and  impossible"  for  her  papers  on  Whitman.  The 
romantic  novelty  was  Mrs.  Wordling,  the  actress,  and  the 
other  two  women  were  Vina  Nettleton,  who  made  gods 
out  of  clay  and  worshipped  Rodin,  and  Marguerite  Grey, 
tall  and  lovely  in  a  tragic,  flower-like  way,  who  painted, 
and  played  the  'cello. . 

"  Meeting  Bedient  this  time  has  been  an  experience 
to  me,"  Cairns  said,  toward  the  end  of  dinner.  "  I  called 
together  the  very  finest  people  I  knew,  because  of  that 


106  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

He  had  sailed  for  ten  years  before  I  knew  him.  That 
was  nearly  thirteen  years  ago.  Not  that  there's  anything 
in  miles,  nor  sailing  about  from  port  to  port.  .  .  . 
He  has  ridden  for  the  English  since,  through  the  great 
Himalayan  forests — years  so  strange  that  he  forgot  their 
passing.  .  .  .  We  are  all  good  friends ;  in  a  sense, 
artists,  together,  so  I  can  say  things.  One  wants  to  be 
pretty  sure  when  one  lets  go  from  the  inside.  I  didn't 
realize  before  how  rarely  this  happens  with  us. 

"  The  point  is,  Bedient  has  kept  something  through 
the  years,  that  I  haven't.  I'm  getting  away  badly,  but  I 
trust  what  I  mean  will  clear  up.  .  .  .  Bedient  and  I 
rode  together  with  an  American  pack-train,  when  there 
was  fighting,  there  in  Luzon.  He  was  the  cook  of  the 
outfit,  and  he  took  me  in,  a  cub-correspondent.  I  look 
back  now  upon  some  of  those  talks  (with  the  smell  of 
coffee  and  forage  and  cigarettes  in  the  night  air)  as 
belonging  to  the  few  perfect  things.  And  last  night  and 
the  night  before,  we  talked  again " 

Cairns'  eye  hurried  past  Mrs.  Wordling,  but  he  seemed 
to  find  what  he  wanted  in  the  glances  of  the  others,  before 
he  resumed: 

"  Without  knowing  it,  Bedient  has  made  me  see  that 
I  haven't  been  keeping  even  decently  white,  here  in  New 
York.  I  found  out,  at  the  same  time,  that  I  couldn't  meet 
him  half-way,  when  he  brought  the  talk  close.  Back 
yonder  in  Luzon,  I  used  to.  Here,  after  the  years,  I 
couldn't.  Something  inside  is  green  and  untrained.  It 
shied  before  real  man-talk.  .  .  .  Bedient  came  into 
a  fortune  recently,  the  result  of  saving  a  captain  during 
a  long-ago  typhoon.  His  property  is  down  in  Equa- 
toria,  where  he  has  been  for  some  months.  So  he  has  had 
a  windfall  that  would  be  unmanning  to  most,  yet  he  comes 
up  here,  just  as  unspoiled  as  he  used  to  be " 

"  David,"  Bedient  pleaded,  "  you're  swinging  around 
in  a  circle.  Be  easy  with  me." 


The  Long-A waited  Woman  107 

"  You've  kept  your  boy's  heart,  that's  what  I'm  try 
ing  to  get  at,"  Cairns  added  briefly. 

Kate  Wilkes  dropped  her  hand  upon  Bedient's  arm, 
and  said,  "  Don't  bother  him.  It  looks  to  me  as  if  truth 
were  being  born.  You'd  have  to  be  a  city  man  or  woman 
to  understand  how  rare  and  relishable  such  an  event  is." 

"  Thanks,  Kate,"  said  Cairns.  "  It's  rather  difficult 
to  express,  but  I  see  I'm  beginning  to  get  it  across." 

"  Go  on,  please." 

Cairns  mused  absently  before  continuing: 

"  Probably  it  doesn't  need  to  come  home  to  anyone 
else,  as  it  did  to  me.  .  .  .  I've  been  serving  King 
Quantity  here  in  New  York  so  long  that  I'd  come  to  think 
it  the  proper  thing  to  do.  Bedient  has  kept  to  the  open — 
the  Bright  Open — and  kept  his  ideals.  I  listened  to  him 
last  night  and  the  night  before,  ashamed  of  myself. 
His  dreams  came  forth  fresh  and  undefiled  as  a  boy's 
— only  they  were  man-strong  and  flexible — and  his  voice 
seemed  to  come  from  behind  the  intention  of  Fate. 
.  '.  .  I  wouldn't  talk  this  way,  only  I  chose  the  people 
here.  I  think  without  saying  more,  you've  got  what 
I've  been  encountering  since  Bedient  blew  up  Caribbean 
way." 

Cairns  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a  glass  of 
moselle  in  his  hand  and  told  about  the  big  lands  in 
Equatoria,  about  the  two  Spaniards,  Jaffier  and  Rey, 
trying  to  assassinate  each  other  under  the  cover  of  cour 
tesy  ;  about  the  orchestrelle,  the  mines  and  the  goats. 
Cleverly,  at  length,  he  drew  Bedient  into  telling  the 
typhoon  adventure. 

It  was  hard,  until  Beth  Truba  leaned  forward  and 
ignited  the  story.  After  that,  the  furious  experience 
lived  in  Bedient's  mind,  and  most  of  it  was  related  into 
her  eyes.  When  he  described  the  light  before  the  break 
of  the  storm,  how  it  was  like  the  hallway  of  his  boyhood, 
where  the  yellow-green  glass  had  frightened  him,  Beth 


108  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

became  paler  if  possible,  and  more  than  ever  intent.  Back 
in  her  mind,  a  sentence  of  Cairns'  was  repeating,  "  His 
voice  seemed  to  come  from  behind  the  intention  of 
Fate."  .  .  .  Finally  when  Bedient  told  of  reaching 
Equatoria,  and  of  the  morning  when  Captain  Carreras 
nudged  bashfully — wanting  his  arm  a  last  time — Beth 
Truba  exclaimed  softly : 

"  Oh,  no,  that  really  can't  all  be  true,  it's  too  good ! " 
and  her  listening  eyes  stirred  with  ecstasy.  .  .  . 

She  liked,  too,  his  picture  of  the  hacienda  on  the 
hill.  .  .  .  The  party  talked  away  up  into  the  top  of 
the  night  and  over;  and  always  when  Bedient  started 
across  (in  his  heart)  to  tame  the  wine-dark  eyes — lo, 
they  were  gone  from  him. 


TENTH   CHAPTER 

THE  JEWS  AND  THE   ROMANS 

KATE  WILKES  lived  at  the  Smilax  Club,  as  did  Vina 
Nettleton,  and,  for  the  present,  Mrs.  Wordling.  The 
actress  was  recently  in  from  the  road.  Her  play  had  not 
run  its  course,  merely  abated  for  the  hot  months.  She 
was  an  important  satellite,  if  not  a  stellar  attraction. 
About  noon,  on  the  day  following  the  party  for  Bedient, 
Mrs.  Wordling  appeared  in  the  breakfast  room,  and  sat 
down  at  the  table  with  Kate  Wilkes,  who  was  having  her 
coffee. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  evening  we  had,"  the  actress 
remarked.  "  David's  party  was  surely  a  success." 

"  Rather,"  assented  Miss  Wilkes,  who  felt  old  and 
nettled.  She  seemed  of  endless  length,  and  one  would 
suppose  that  her  clothes  were  designed  so  that  not  one 
bone  should  be  missed.  Mrs.  Wordling  was  not  an 
especial  favorite  with  her. 

"  They  made  it  up  beautifully  between  them,  didn't 
they?  "  the  actress  observed,  as  she  squeezed  orange-juice 
into  her  spoon. 

"What?" 

"  That  story." 

"Who?" 

"  Why,  that  story — that  friendship,  storm-at-sea, 
Equatoria  story — done  jointly  by  Messrs.  Cairns  and 
Bedient." 

"You  think  they  rehearsed  it,  then?"  Kate  Wilkes 
asked  softly. 

"  Why,  of  course.  It  unfolded  like  a  story — each 
piling  on  clever  enthusiasm  for  the  other." 

There  was  a  slight  pause. 

"  And  so  you  think  David  Cairns  simulated  that  fine 
touch,  about  discovering  through  his  friend,  what 

109 


110  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

damage  New  York  was  doing  him?"  Kate  Wilkes' 
manner  was  lightly  reflective. 

"  Of  course.  Don't  you  remember  how  he  stumbled 
until  you  helped  him  going?" 

"You  think — as  I  understand  it "  Miss  Wilkes 

had  become  queerly  penetrative,  and  spoke  in  a  way  that 
made  one  think  of  a  beetle  being  pinned  through  the 

thorax,  " that  David  Cairns  merely  used  his  artistic 

intelligence  for  our  entertainment ;  that  Andrew  Bedient 
is  merely  an  interesting  type  of  sailor  and  wanderer  who 
has  struck  it  rich  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  Kate,  that's  the  way  it  got  over  to  me. 
We  all  know  David  Cairns  is  selling  everything  he  writes 
at  a  top-figure ;  that  he  is  eminently  successful,  quite  the 
thing  in  many  periodicals,  finely  pleased  with  himself 
as  a  successful  man " 

"  Wordling,"  said  Kate  Wilkes,  leaning  toward  her, 
"  what  kind  of  people  do  you  associate  with  in  your 
work?" 

"  The  best,  dear, — always  the  best.  People  who 
think,  and  who  love  their  work." 

Slowly  and  without  passion  the  elder  woman  now 
delivered  herself : 

"  People  who  think  they  think  and  who  love  them 
selves  !  .  .  .  I  have  tried  to  make  myself  believe  you 
were  different.  You  are  not  different,  Wordling.  You 
are  true  to  your  kind,  and  not  distinguished  from  them. 
David  Cairns  never  rehearsed  a  part  with  Andrew  Be 
dient.  Men  as  full  of  real  things  as  these  two  do  not 
need  rehearsals.  Bedient  came  up  from  his  Island,  and 
all  unconsciously  made  his  old  companion  realize  that  he 
was  not  breathing  the  breath  of  life  here  in  New  York. 
Cairns  wept  over  it,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  try  again ; 
and  fine  chap  that  he  is,  he  called  a  few  of  his  friends 
together,  to  give  us  a  chance  to  see  the  thing  as  he  saw 
it.  I  call  it  an  honor  that  he  invited  me.  I  see  you  do 
not.  Unfortunately  this  is  one  of  those  differences  of 


The  Jews  and  the  Romans  111 

opinion  which  are  at  the  base  of  things.  .  .  .  Luck 
to  you,  Wordling,"  she  finished,  rising.  "  I  feel  seedy 
and  have  a  busy  afternoon  ahead." 

Mrs.  Wordling  laughed  delightedly,  though  boiling 
lava  ran  within  and  pressed  against  the  craters.  Alone, 
she  asked  herself  what  Kate  Wilkes  had  done  to  get 
away  with  eccentricities,  to  which  only  those  of  stardom 
are  entitled. 

"  Hag,"  she  muttered,  after  such  conning. 

Bedient  was  early  abroad  in  the  city,  having  felt 
entirely  above  the  need  of  sleep.  He  was  less  serene  than 
usual,  but  with  compensations.  There  was  a  peculiar 
fear  in  his  mind  that  New  York  was  laughing  at  him  a 
bit.  Perhaps,  Cairns  had  pressed  down  a  little  too  hard 
on  the  queer  unhurt  quality  he  was  alleged  to  possess. 
In  a  word,  Bedient  sensed  the  humor  of  Mrs.  Wordling, 
and  could  not  yet  know  that  she,  of  the  entire  company, 
monopolized  the  taint. 

The  Smilax  Club  pleased  him,  and  he  had  permitted 
Cairns  to  put  him  up  there. 

That  flame  of  a  woman,  Beth  Truba,  was  the  spirit 
of  his  every  thought.  Her  listening  had  drawn  the  soul 
from  him.  The  great  thing  had  happened ;  and  yet  it  was 
different  from  the  way  he  had  visioned  it.  ...  Never 
had  a  woman  so  startled  him  with  the  sense  of  the 
world's  fullness — in  that  she  was  in  the  world.  That  he 
had  found  her  was  his  first  achievement,  true  reward 
of  deathless  faith ;  and  yet  it  was  all  so  different.  She 
was  different.  She  had  not  known  him. 

In  the  amplitude  of  his  wanderings,  one  conception 
had  grown  slightly  out  of  proportion.  He  saw  this  now, 
and  smiled  affectionately  at  the  old  thought :  "  When 
The  Woman  appears,  I  shall  not  be  alone  in  the  gladness 
of  the  moment."  ...  Those  were  mountain-tops 
of  dreaming  upon  which  he  strode  without  reckoning. 
It  would  have  been  absurd,  had  Beth  Truba  given  him  a 


112  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

sign.  This  was  not  India,  nor  the  Dream  Ranges. 
.  .  .  She  had  faced  life,  lived  it  among  the  teeming 
elements  of  this  vast  city.  The  world  had  wrought  upon 
her,  while  she  wrought  her  place  in  the  world.  She  was 
finished,  an  artist,  a  woman  of  New  York,  wise,  poised, 
brilliant.  It  was  the  world's  ideals,  and  not  those  of  the 
silence  and  the  spirit,  altogether,  that  governed  her  man 
ner  and  dress  and  movement.  She  had  not  lived  in  the 
silence;  therefore  that  which  was  of  the  silence  had 
been  kept  among  the  deep  inner  places  of  her  life.  The 
secrets  of  her  heart  were  deeper  than  mere  man's  leaden 
fathomings.  Even  had  he  appeared  unto  her  as  an 
illumination — only  Beth  Truba  would  have  known. 

He  did  not  come  into  great  peace  in  her  presence.  No 
matter  what  she  dreamed  of,  or  desired,  the  lover  could 
only  come  to  her  in  the  world's  approved  ways.  So,  all 
the  accumulated  beauty  of  idealism  counted  nothing  in 
this  first  stage  of  Bedient's  quest.  Instead  of  the  peace 
of  her  presence,  he  was  filled  with  restless  energies,  past 
all  precedent.  Quite  in  a  boyish  way,  he  wanted  to  do 
things  for  her,  huge  and  little  things,  forgetting  not  the 
least,  and  performing  each  succeeding  action  with  a  finer 
art. 

Beth  Truba  was  the  first  woman  who  ever  appealed 
to  Bedient,  without  recalling  in  some  way  the  Adelaide 
passion.  There  was  hardly  a  trace  of  that  element  in  the 
new  outpouring.  If  it  is  true  that  a  woman  calls  from 
man  a  love-token  in  her  own  image,  Beth  Truba  was 
marble  cold.  The  larger  part  of  his  first  giving  was 
above  the  flesh,  a  passion  to  bestow  beautiful  things, 
the  happiness  of  others.  That  she  might  ever  have  any 
meaning  to  him  beyond  receiving  these  gifts,  scarcely  en 
tered,  as  yet,  his  thrilled  consciousness.  It  had  startled 
him  that  she  was  seemingly  free ;  that  she  had  reached 
full  womanhood  in  solitary  empire.  He  dared  be  glad 
of  this,  but  he  could  not  grasp  it,  unless  she  were  vowed 
to  spinsterhood  by  some  irrevocable  iron  of  her  will; 


The  Jews  and  the  Romans  113 

or  perhaps  some  king  of  men  had  come,  and  she  had  given 
her  word.  .  .  .  Bedient  could  not  understand  how 
any  discerning  masculine  mind  could  look  upon  Beth 
Truba,  and  go  his  way  without  determining  his  chance. 
He  felt  (and  here  he  was  "  warm,"  as  they  say  in  the 
children's  game  )that  David  Cairns  must  be  one  of  the 
men  who  had  seen  Beth  Truba  and  not  conquered. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  Cairns  would  tell  him  regarding  these 
things,  but  they  were  altogether  too  sacred  to  broach, 
except  in  the  finest  possible  moment. 

He  had  returned  to  the  club  early  in  the  afternoon, 
and  was  standing  at  one  of  the  windows,  his  eyes  turned 
toward  the  green  square  opposite.  He  was  thinking  of 
the  enchantress,  and  how  she  would  admire  the  shower- 
whipped  hills  of  Equatoria  and  all  that  wild  perfumed 
beauty.  .  .  .  His  name  was  softly  spoken  by  one  of 
the  regal  shadows  of  the  night  before,  Marguerite  Grey. 

"  If  I  hadn't  seen  you  or  Mr.  Cairns  again,"  she  be 
gan,  "  I'd  have  come  to  think  of  last  night  almost  as  a 
dream." 

"  That's  queer,  Miss  Grey,"  he  answered,  taking  her 
hand.  "  It's  like  a  dream  to  me,  too." 

"  I  didn't  feel  like  working  to-day,"  she  said.  "  The 
routine  appalled  me,  so  I  came  over  to  look  in  upon 
Vina  Nettleton.  Her  studio  is  above.  Have  you  seen 
her  '  Stations  of  the  Cross'  ?" 

"  .No." 

"  Her  four  years'  task — for  the  great  Quebec  cathe 
dral?  .  .  .  You  really  must.  It's  an  experience  to 
watch  her  work,  and  Vina's  worth  knowing — pure  spirit. 
.  .  .  Would  you  like  to  go  up  with  me  ?  " 

Alternating  fascinations  possessed  Bedient,  as  the 
elevator  carried  them  upward.  .  .  .  These  were  his 
real  playmates,  these  people  of  pictures  and  statues. 
He  had  come  a  long  way  through  different  lights  and 
darkness  to  find  them.  He  did  not  know  their  ways  of 
play,  but  well  knew  he  should  like  them  when  he  learned, 
8 


114  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

and  that  their  play  would  prove  prettier  than  any  he 
had  ever  known.  .  .  .  And  this  tall,  still  woman  be 
side  him — almost  as  tall  as  he,  of  rarest  texture,  and 
with  a  voice  sensuously  soft,  having  that  quality  of 
softness  which  distinguishes  a  charcoal  from  a  graphite 
line — this  woman  seemed  identified  in  some  remoteness 
of  mind  with  long-ago  rainy  days,  of  which  there  had 
been  none  too  many.  .  .  .  Her  voice  seemed  to  lose 
direction  in  his  fancy,  loitering  there,  strangely  enticing. 
.  .  .  "  Would  you  like  to  go  up  with  me?"  .  .  . 
And  these  were  Beth  Truba's  friends  .... 

A  bell  was  touched  in  the  high  hall,  and  Vina  Nettle- 
ton's  plaintive  tone  trailed  forth: 

"  Won't  you  come  right  in — please — into  my  muddy 
room?" 

A  large  room  opening  upon  a  steel  fire-frame,  where 
two  could  sit,  and  a  view  of  the  city  to  the  North. 
Commandingly  near  on  the  left  arose  the  Metropolitan 
Tower.  The  studio  itself  had  an  unfinished  look,  with  its 
step-ladders  and  scaffolding  and  plaster-panels.  In  the 
midst  of  such  ponderous  affairs,  stood  a  frail  creature  in 
a  streaky  blouse,  exhibiting  her  clayey  hands  and  smiling 
pensively.  It  was  only  when  you  looked  at  the  figures 
in  the  panels,  and  at  the  models  in  clay,  that  Vina  Nettle- 
ton  appeared  to  belong  to  these  matters  of  a  contractor. 
Marguerite  Grey  was  saying: 

"  When  I  get  too  weary,  or  heart-sick,  tired  of  my 
own  work,  in  the  sense  of  being  bored  by  jits  common 
ness " 

"  Wicked  woman,"  murmured  Vina. 

"  When  the  thought  comes  that  I  should  be  a  cashier 
in  a  restaurant,"  the  other  went  on,  in  her  sadly  smiling 
way,  speaking  altogether  to  Bedient,  "  I  come  to  this 
place.  Here  is  an  artist,  Mr.  Bedient.  Vina  has  been 
working  at  these  things  for  two  years.  She  has  still 
two  years  to  finish  within  her  contract.  These  are  her 
prayers;  they  will  live  in  the  transept  of  a  great 
cathedral." 


The  Jews  and  the  Romans  115 

"Don't  mind  the  Grey  One,  Mr.  Bedient,"  Vina 
Nettleton  said  lightly.  "  We  are  dear  friends." 

Bedient  lost  himself  in  the  study  of  the  veins  which 
showed  through  the  delicate  white  skin  of  Vina's  temples. 
He  was  moved  to  personal  interest  by  this  woman's  work. 
The  room  was  intense  with  the  figures  about,  and  the 
artist's  being.  He  was  sure  Marguerite  Grey  did  not 
know  all  that  concerned  her  friend,  the  full  meaning, 
for  instance,  of  the  shadows  that  began  at  the  inner  cor 
ners  of  her  eyes  and  flared  like  dark  wings  outward. 
There  was  something  tremendous  in  the  frail,  small  creat 
ure,  an  inner  brightness  that  shone  forth  through  her 
white  skin,  as  light  through  porcelain.  Bedient  granted 
quickly  that  there  was  power  here  to  make  the  world 
remember  the  name  of  Vina  Nettleton ;  but  he  knew  she 
was  not  giving  all  to  these  creatures  of  clay.  He, had 
never  sensed  such  a  mingling  of  emotions  and  spirit. 
*  .  .  "  Pure  spirit,"  the  Grey  One  had  said.  Possibly 
it  was  so  to  the  world,  but  he  would  have  said  that  the 
spirit  of  Vina  Nettleton  was  fed  by  emotion — seas,  woods, 
fields,  skies  and  rivers  of  emotion — and  that  mighty  ener 
gies,  unused  by  the  great  task,  roamed  in  nightly  anguish. 

Bedient  moved  raptly  among  the  panels.  He  won 
dered  how  the  artist  had  made  the  light  fall  upon  the 
dull  clay,  always  where  the  Christ  stood  or  walked  or 
hung.  ..."  And  how  did  you  know  He  had  such 
beautiful  hands  ?  "  he  asked. 

Vina  Nettleton  looked  startled,  and  the  Grey  One 
came  closer,  saying :  "  I'm  glad  you  see  that.  To  me 
the  hands  are  a  particular  achievement.  Do  you  notice 
the  fine  modelling  at  the  outer  edges  of  the  palms,  and  the 
trailing  length  of  the  fingers  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bedient,  "  as  if  you  could  not  quite  tell 
where  the  flesh  ended  and  the  healing  magnetism  began." 

Vina  Nettleton  sat  down  upon  one  of  the  steps  of 
a  ladder  and  stared  at  him.  The  Grey  One  added : 

"  And  yet  you  cannot  say  they  are  overdone.  They 
are  the  hands  of  an  artist,  but  not  assertively  so." 


116  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  It  is  my  limitation  that  I  don't  know,"  he  said, 
"  but  how  is  that  effect  obtained,  that  suggestion  of 
psychic  power  ?  " 

"  Part  is  your  sensitiveness  of  eye  and  understanding," 
the  Grey  One  answered,  "  and  the  rest  comes  from  our 
little  woman  making  a  prayer  of  her  work ;  from  taking 
an  image  of  Him  and  the  Others  into  the  dark ;  of  light, 
ascetic  sleep  and  putting  away  the  dreams  of  women " 

Scarlet  showed  under  the  transparent  skin  of  the 
Nettleton  temples  now — as  if  putting  away  the  dreams  of 
women  were  not  an  unqualified  success. 

"  It  is  all  interesting.  I  am  grateful  to  you  both 
for  letting  me  come,"  Bedient  said  with  strange 
animation,  eager  yet  full  of  hesitancy.  "  More  won 
derful  than  the  hands,  is  the  Face,  which  Miss 
Nettleton  has  kept  averted  throughout  her  entire 
idea.  That's  the  way  the  Face  appears  to  me.  The 
disciples  and  the  multitudes  must  have  seen  it  so, 
except  on  rare,  purposeful  occasions.  .  .  .  He  must 
have  been  slight  and  not  tall,  and  delicate  as  you  see  Him. 
It  was  not  that  He  lacked  physical  endurance,  but  He  was 
worn,  as  those  about  Him  did  not  understand,  with  con 
stant  inner  agony.  That  was  His  great  weariness.  . 
It  was  not  an  imposing  Figure.  Nothing  about  Him 
challenged  the  Romans.  They  were  but  abandoned  boys 
who  bowed  to  the  strength  that  roars,  and  the  bulk  that 
makes  easy  blood-letting.  Even  in  custody,  He  was  be 
neath  the  notice  of  most  Romans,  so  inflamed  and  brutish 
from  conquest  were  they ;  and  Pilate,  though  the  Tragic 
Instrument,  was  among  the  least  ignoble  of  them " 

Bedient  felt  vaguely  the  interest  of  Vina  Nettleton 
in  what  he  was  saying.  It  was  a  remarkable  moment. 
His  mind  was  crowded  with  a  hundred  things  to  say ; 
yet  he  was  startled,  diffident,  in  spite  of  the  joy  of  speak 
ing  these  things  aloud. 

"  What  a  hideous  time  of  darkness !  "  he  added  in  the 
silence.  "  The  Jews  were  but  little  better  than  the  Ro- 


The  Jews  and  the  Romans  117 

mans.  They  were  looking  for  a  king,  a  Solomon  sort 
of  king  with  temples  and  trappings  and  sizable  authori 
ties.  Isn't  it  divine  irony,  that  the  Messianic  Figure 
should  appear  in  the  very  heart  of  this  racial  weakness 
of  the  Jews?  And  their  lesson  seems  still  unlearned. 
New  York  brings  this  home  to-day.  .  .  .  So,  to 
the  Jews  and  the  Romans,  He  was  insignificant  in  appear 
ance.  His  beauty  was  spiritual,  which  to  be  recognized, 
requires  spirituality — a  feminine  quality. 

"And  among  the  disciples:  Hasn't  it  occurred  to 
you  again  and  again  how  their  doubting  egos  arose,  when 
His  face  was  turned  away  ?  Poor  fellows,  they  were  both 
ered  with  their  stomachs  and  their  places  to  sleep;  they 
quarrelled  with  the  different  villagers,  and  doubtless 
wished  themselves  back  a  hundred  times  to  their  fishing- 
banks  and  kindred  employments,  when  the  Christ  moved 
a  little  apart  from  them.  I  can  see  them  (behind  His 
back),  daring  each  other  to  approach  and  make  known 
their  fancied  injustices  and  rebellions.  It  was  so  with  the 
multitudes  before  they  looked  upon  His  countenance. 

"  But  when  He  turns,  whether  in  sorrow  or  in  anger, 
the  look  is  invincible.  .  .  .  That  is  always  true, 
whether  the  Face  is  turned  upon  one,  or  the  Twelve,  or 
the  multitude — in  the  crowded  market-place,  or  by  the 
sea  where  the  many  were  fed,  or  on  the  Mount — perfect 
tributes  of  silence  answered  His  direct  attention,  and  all 
spiteful,  petty  ego  outcroppings  vanished.  ...  So 
there  were  two  Figures:  One,  a  man,  slender,  tired  and 
tortured ;  and  an  Angel  Countenance,  before  whose  lus 
trous  communications  all  men  were  abased  according  to 
their  spirit." 

He  paused,  but  the  women  did  not  speak.     .     .     . 

"  Dear  God,  how  lonely  He  was !  "  Bedient  said  after 
a  moment,  as  he  regarded  a  picture  of  the  Christ  alone 
on  the  Mount,  and  the  soldiers  ascending  to  make  the 
arrest  "  There  were  two  who  might  have  sustained 
Him  in  His  daily  death  agonies.  I  have  always  wished 


118  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

they  could  have  been  near  Him  throughout  the  Passion. 
They  would  not  have  slept,  that  darkest  of  nights  while 
He  prayed!  I  mean  Saint  Paul,  who  of  course  did  not 
see  the  Jesus  of  history,  and  John  the  Baptist,  who  was 
given  to  know  Him  but  an  hour  at  the  beginning.  They 
were  the  greatest  mortals  of  those  days.  .  .  .  They 
were  above  the  attractions  of  women  of  flesh.  Do  you 
see  what  I  mean  ?  They  were  humanly  complete,  beyond 
sex !  Their  grandeur  of  soul  meant  a  union  within  them 
selves  of  militant  manhood  and  mystic  womanhood. 
Illumination  really  means  that.  They  could  have  sus 
tained  and  ministered  unto  the  Christ  with  real  tender 
ness. 

"  Invariably,  I  think,  this  is  true :  It  is  a  woman,  or 
the  woman  in  man  that  recognizes  a  Messiah.  .  .  . 
Look  at  those  males  of  singing  flesh — the  ultra-masculine 
Romans — how  blind  and  how  torpid  they  were  to  Him ; 
and  the  materialistic  Jews,  ponderously  confronting  each 
other  with  stupid  forms  and  lifeless  rituals,  while  their 
Marys  and  Magdalens  and  Miriams  followed  the  Master 
and  waited  upon  Him !  .  .  .  I  always  found  a  kind 
of  soulful  feminine  in  John,  the  apostle — not  the  Fore 
runner,  but  the  brother  of  James.  He  was  weak  in  those 
days  of  the  Passion,  but  became  mighty  afterward,  and 
divinely  tender,  the  apostle  whom  Jesus  loved,  to  whom 
he  intrusted  His  Mother.  .  .  .  But  look  into  the 
arch-feminine  ideal  of  the  Christ  Himself — that  night  on 
the  Mount  of  Olives,  when  all  Earth's  struggle  and 
anguish  passed  through  Him,  clothing  itself  with  His 
pity  and  tenderness,  before  it  reached  the  eye  of  the 
Father.  What  ineffable  Motherhood !  " 

The  room  wrought  strangely  upon  Bedient.  He  had 
never  spoken  at  such  length  before,  nor  so  eagerly.  Vina 
•Nettleton  spoke  for  the  first  time  almost,  since  she  had 
welcomed  him.  "You  help  me  greatly,"  she  said  with 
difficulty.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  exactly.  I  didn't  know 
why,  but  last  night  I  hoped  you  would  come  here.  Oh, 


The  Jews  and  the  Romans  119 

it  wasn't  to  help  me  with  this — not  selfishly  in  the  work, 
not  that — but  I  seemed  to  know  you  knew  the  things  you 
have  said  just  now." 

Bedient  was  thrilled  by  her  sincerity.  .  .  .  The 
low  voice  of  the  Grey  One  now  repeated: 

"  Spirituality,  a  feminine  quality  ?  " 

"  To  me,  always,"  said  Bedient,  his  eyes  lit  with  sud 
den  enthusiasm.  "  The  Holy  Spirit  is  Mystic  Mother 
hood.  It  is  divinely  the  feminine  principle.  .  .  . 
Look  at  the  world's  prophets,  or  take  Saint  Paul,  for  he 
is  in  finished  perspective.  Completely  human  he  is,  un 
conquerable  manhood  ignited  by  the  luminous  feminine 
quality  of  the  soul.  There  he  stands,  the  man  born  again 
of  the  Holy  Spirit,  or  Mystic  Motherhood.  .  .  .  Now 
look  at  Jesus,  a  step  higher  still,  and  beyond  which  our 
vision  cannot  mount.  Here  is  the  prophet  risen  to  God- 
hood — the  union  of  Two,  transcendent  through  that  heav 
enly  mystery — the  adding  of  a  Third!  Doesn't  it  clear 
for  you  startlingly  now?  It  did  for  me.  Here  is  the 
Three  in  One  in  Jesus — the  Godhood  of  the  Father,  the 
manhood  of  the  Son,  and  the  Mystic  Motherhood  of  the 
Holy  Spirit.  So  in  the  radiance  of  the  Trinity — Jesus 
arose — '  the  first  fruits  of  them  that  slept/  " 

There  was  a  light  knock  at  the  door.  The  face  of  the 
Grey  One  was  like  a  wraith,  motionless  and  staring  at 
him.  Vina  Nettleton  looked  up  from  her  soiled  hands, 
which  had  streaked  her  face.  .  .  .  She  moved  sud 
denly  to  the  door,  but  did  not  touch  it. 

"  Go  away,"  she  said  intensely.    "  I  can  see  no  one." 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  burn  along  the  frame.  There  was 
no  answer  from  without,  but  a  light  step  turning  away. 
.  .  .  Assured  that  the  visitor  was  gone,  Vina  turned 
back  to  Bedient. 

"  We  mustn't  be  interrupted — nor  must  you  go  yet," 
she  said  with  effort.  "  I  don't  think  anything  ever  hap 
pened  to  me  so  important.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  for  my 
work ;  believe  me  in  that,  won't  you  ?  Since  a  little  girl,  I 


120  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

have  thought  of  these  things.  And  here  for  two  years 
they  have  been  about  me.  To  me  the  Third  of  the  Trinity 
has  been  as  a  voice  calling  out  of  darkness.  They  told  me 
when  I  was  a  bit  of  a  girl  that  It  was  not  for  me  to  under 
stand,  and  that  terrible  men  committed  the  deadly  sin  of 
blasphemy  through  It " 

"  Poor  child,"  Bedient  said,  smiling  at  her.  "  They 
didn't  know.  Could  anything  be  lovelier  for  one  to  think 
about?  The  Holy  Spirit  as  the  source  of  the  divine  prin 
ciple  in  Woman,  and  Woman  ever  so  eager  to  give  the 
spiritual  loaf  to  man !  That's  the  richest  thought  to  me. 
After  that  is  realized,  all  one's  thinking  must  adjust  itself 
to  it;  as  in  Hindu  minds,  all  thoughts  adjust  to  reincarna 
tion,  and  flow  from  it.  ...  There  is  a  tender  glow  of 
spirit,  a  sort  of  ignition  of  the  narrative,  in  every  instance 
where  a  woman  approaches  the  Christ  in  His  mission  on 
earth.  And  men  seem  to  find  no  meaning  in  these  won 
derful  things.  .  .  .  The  women  of  this  world  are 
the  symbols  and  the  vessels  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  It  is  only 
through  woman's  love  that  It  can  be  given  to  the  race. 
I  like  to  think  of  it  this  way :  As  a  woman  brings  a  child 
to  her  husband,  the  father,  so  the  Holy  Spirit — Mystic 
Motherhood — is  bringing  the  World  to  God,  the  Father. 
And  Jesus  is  the  first  fruits," 

The  women  regarded  each  other  in  silence.  Bedient 
stayed,  until  the  tardy  May  dusk  effaced  the  city,  all  but 
the  myriad  points  of  light. 


ELEVENTH   CHAPTER 

TWO  DAVIDS   COME  TO  BETH 

BETH  TRUBA  awoke  late.  Goliath  of  Gath  had  just 
fallen  with  obituary  hiccoughs  and  a  great  clatter  of 
armor.  .  .  .  She  sat  up,  and  reviewed  recent  events 
backward.  The  stone  had  sunk  into  the  forehead.  David 
came  down  to  meet  the  giant  smiling.  There  was  no 
anger  about  it.  The  stone  had  been  slung  leisurely. 
Before  that,  the  boy  had  been  brought  in  from  his  sheep- 
herding  to  be  anointed  king.  Samuel  had  seen  it  in  a 
vision,  and  not  otherwise.  .  .  .  David  found  Saul's 
armor  irksome,  took  up  his  staff,  and  went  to  the  brook 
for  good,  sizable  stones,  just  as  if  he  had  spied  a  wolf 
slavering  at  the  herds  from  the  brow  of  the  hill.  .  .  . 

Beth  laughed,  and  wondered  why  the  Bible  story  had 
come  back  in  her  dream.  There  seemed  no  clue,  not  even 
when  she  contemplated  the  events  of  the  rather  remarkable 
evening  preceding.  Many  minutes  afterward,  however, 
arranging  her  hair,  she  found  herself  repeating : 

"  Now  he  was  ruddy,  and  withal,  of  a  beautiful  coun 
tenance."  Finally  it  came  to  her,  and  she  was  pleased  and 
astonished:  Throughout  the  evening,  Beth  had  felt  that 
some  Bible  description  exactly  fitted  in  her  mind  to  the 
new  impression  of  Bedient,  but  she  could  not  think  of  it 
then.  Her  effort  had  brought  it  forth  in  the  night,  and  the 
whole  story  that  went  with  it. 

Beth  drank  a  bottle  of  milk,  ashamed  of  the  hour, 
though  she  had  not  slept  long.  She  loved  mornings; 
New  York  could  never  change  her  delight  in  the  long 
forenoon.  She  was  at  work  at  two,  and  undisturbed 
for  two  hours.  Beth's  studio  was  the  garret  of  an  old 
mansion,  a  step  from  Fifth  Avenue  in  the  Thirties.  Its 
effect,  as  one  entered,  was  golden  at  midday,  and  turned 
brown  with  the  first  shadows. 

121 


122  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Mrs.  Wordling  called  at  four.  For  a  woman  who 
had  been  scornfully  analyzed  by  Kate  Wilkes  (who  really 
could  be  vitriol-tongued)  and  ordered  away  from  Vina 
Nettleton's  door  like  an  untimely  beggar,  Mrs.  Wordling 
looked  remarkably  well.  In  point  of  fact,  Mrs.  Wordling 
was  ungovernably  pretty.  Moreover,  she  knew  Kate 
Wilkes  well  enough  to  understand  that  she  was  too  busy 
to  sketch  the  characters  of  other  women  except  for  their 
own  benefit.  As  for  Vina  Nettleton,  the  cloistered,  she 
could  do  as  she  liked,  being  great  in  her  calling ;  besides, 
a  woman  who  had  a  man-visitor  so  rarely  as  Vina  Nettle- 
ton,  might  be  expected  to  become  snappy  and  excited. 
Bedient  was  proving  a  rather  stiff  drug.  Mrs.  Wordling 
now  wished  to  observe  his  action  upon  Beth  Truba.  "  I'll 
appear  to  regard  it  as  a  perfectly  lady-like  party,  which 
it  was,"  she  mused,  in  the  dingy  interminable  stairways, 
— the  elevator  being  an  uncertain  quantity — "  and  run 
no  risk  of  being  thrown  three  flights." 

"  Beth,  you're  looking  really  right,"  Mrs.  Wordling 
enthused. 

"  So  good  of  you,"  said  Beth.  "  Must  be  lovely  out, 
isn't  it?  .  .  .  The  poster  will  be  ready  in  three  or 
four  days.  .  .  .  Didn't  we  have  a  good  time  at 
David's  party?  " 

"  Such  a  good  time " 

"  Really  must  have,  since  we  stayed  until  an  uncon 
scionable  hour.  Half-past  two  when  we  broke  up " 

"  All  of  that,  Beth." 

The  artist  looked  up  from  her  work.  Mrs.  Wordling's 
acquiescences  seemed  modulated.  The  "  Beths  "  were  no 
more  frequent  than  usual,  however.  The  artist  had  grown 
used  to  this  from  certain  people.  It  appeared  that  her 
name  was  so  to  the  point,  that  many  kept  it  juggling 
through  their  conversation  with  her,  like  a  ball  in  a  foun 
tain.  .  .  .  The  poster,  Beth  had  consented  to  do  in 
a  weak  moment.  It  was  to  be  framed  for  theatre-lobbies. 
People  whom  Beth  painted  were  seldom  quite  the  same 


Two  Davids  Come  to  Beth  123 

afterward  to  her.  She  seemed  to  learn  too  much.  She 
had  greatly  admired  Mrs.  Wordling's  good  nature  at  the 
beginning.  There  was  no  objection  now ;  only  the  actress 
had  given  her  in  quantity  what  had  first  attracted,  and 
quantity  had  palled.  Beth  often  wished  she  did  not  dis 
cern  so  critically.  .  .  .  Just  now  she  divined  that 
her  caller  wanted  to  discuss  Cairns'  friend.  The  result 
was  that  Mrs.  Wordling  left  after  a  half-hour,  with 
Bedient  heavier  and  more  undeveloped  than  ever  in  her 
consciousness.  Always  a  considerable  social  factor  in  her 
theatrical  companies,  Mrs.  Wordling  was  challenged  by 
the  people  of  the  Smilax  Club.  She  was  not  getting  on 
with  them,  and  the  thought  piqued.  Bedient,  who  had 
not  greatly  impressed  her,  had  apparently  struck  twelve 
with  the  others.  Therefore,  he  became  at  once  both  an 
object  and  a  means.  There  was  a  way  to  prove  her 
artistry.  .  .  . 

Beth  went  on  with  her  painting,  the  face  of  another 
whom  she  had  found  out.  And  painting,  she  smiled  and 
thought.  She  was  like  a  pearl  in  the  good  North  light. 
Across  the  pallor  of  her  face  ran  a  magnetic  current  of 
color  from  the  famous  hair  to  the  crimson  jacket  she 
wore,  pinned  at  the  throat  by  a  soaring  gull,  with  the 
tiniest  ruby  for  an  eye.  .  .  .  David  Cairns  called. 
He  seemed  drawn  and  nervous.  Obviously  he  had  come 
to  say  things.  Beth  knew  his  moods. 

"  David,  we  had  a  memorable  time  last  night,  you 
know  that,"  she  said.  "  You  know,  too,  that  I  have  been, 
and  am,  friendly  to  Mrs.  Wordling.  As  the  party  turned 
out,  I'm  interested  to  know  just  how  you  came  to  choose 
the  guests.  We  drew  rather  close  together  for  New 
Yorkers " 

"  That's  a  fact." 

"  But  the  Grey  One  is  engaged  to  be  married.  In 
theory,  Kate  Wilkes  is  a  man-hater.  Dear  little  Vina 
is  consecrated  to  her  '  Stations '  for  two  years  more. 
Eliminate  me  as,  forborne,  a  spinster.  .  .  .  Yet  you  told 


124  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

me  two  or  three  days  ago  that  you  wouldn't  be  surprised 
if  your  friend  took  his  lady  back " 

"  That  may  be  true,  Beth,"  he  interrupted.  "  But  I 
spoke  hastily.  It  sounds  crude  and  an  infringement  now. 
I  really  didn't  know  Bedient " 

"When  you  invited  your  guests — Mrs.  Wordling?" 

"  I  should  have  consulted  someone " 

"  Not  at  all,  David.  It  was  eminently  right.  I  am  not 
criticising,  just  interested." 

"  I've  been  revoluting  inside.  Mrs.  Wordling  hap 
pened  three  days  ago,  when  I  was  first  thinking  out  the 
party.  I  didn't  know  we  were  to  get  into  real  things. 
'  Ah,  here's  a  ripe  rounding  influence,'  said  I.  '  Do  come, 
Mrs.  Wordling.'  Maybe  I  did  figure  out  the  contrast  she 
furnished.  She's  friendly  and  powerfully  pretty  and,  why, 
I  see  it  now,  one  of  the  Wordlings  of  this  world  would 
have  taken  Andrew  Bedient  into  camp  years  ago,  if  he 
were  designed  for  that  kind  of  woman.  Why,  that's  the 
kind  of  woman  he  doubtless  knows " 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think?"  Beth  inquired.  "I 
think  you  should  be  punished  for  using  Mrs.  Wordling 
or  anyone  else  as  a  foil.  That's  a  Wordl — a  woman's 
strategy." 

"  I  know  it,  Beth,"  Cairns  said  excitedly.  "  But  I 
didn't  think  of  it  until  afterward.  I  wouldn't  do  it 
again." 

She  was  startled,  saw  too  late  that  this  was  no  time 
for  showing  him  his  crudities. 

"  You're  a  dear  boy "  she  began. 

"  No,  I'm  not,  Beth.  Oh,  it  isn't  the  only  thing— 
that  has  been  rammed  home  to  me.  .  .  .  Me;  there's 
so  much  me  mixed  up  in  my  mind,  so  much  tiresome  and 
squalid  me,  that  I  wonder  every  decent  person  hasn't  cut 
me  long  since  for  a  bore  and  a  nuisance.  Why,  I  had 
become  all  puny  and  blinded — my  stomach,  my  desires, 
markets,  memories,  ambitions,  doubts,  rages,  rights,  poses 
and  conceits.  I  really  need  to  tell  some  one,  to  unveil  be- 


Two  Davids  Come  to  Beth  125 

fore  some  one  who  won't  wince,  but  treasure  the  little 
moral  residuum " 

"  You  have  done  well  to  come  to  Beth,"  she  said,  lean 
ing  forward  and  patting  his  shoulder  with  the  thin  stem 
of  her  brush,  though  a  woman  always  feels  her  years  when 
a  man  brings  woes  such  as  these  to  her.  ...  It  was 
Beth's  weakness  (or  strength)  that  she  could  never  reveal 
the  intimacies  of  her  heart.  Only  sometimes  in  half- 
humorous  generalities,  she  permitted  things  to  escape, 
thinking  no  one  understood. 

"  Thanks,  Beth.  I'm  grateful,"  Cairns  said.  "  I  seem 
to  have  missed  for  a  long  time  the  bigger  dimension  in 
people,  books,  pictures,  faces,  even  in  the  heart.  It's  a 
long  time  since  I  set  out  this  way,  a  down-grade,  and  the 
last  few  days,  I've  heard  the  rapids.  I'm  going  back,  as 
far  and  as  fast  as  I  can  up-stream.  And  this  is  no  lie ; 
no  pose." 

"  I  repeat,  you're  a  dear  boy " 

"  Oh,  it's  Bedient  who  jerked  me  up  straight.  I'd 
have  gone  on.  .  .  .  And  to  think  I  made  him  wait 
over  an  hour,  when  he  first  called.  .  .  .  He's  the 
finest  bit  of  man-stuff  I've  ever  known,  Beth." 

She  found  herself  relieved,  that  he  had  given  to  the 
stranger  the  praise. 

"...  And,  Beth,  if  you  want  to  dig  for  his  views, 
you'll  get  them.  He  says  New  York  plucks  everything 
green ;  opinionates  on  the  wing,  makes  personal  capital 
out  of  another's  offering,  refusing  to  wait  for  the  fineness 
of  impersonal  judgment.  He  asks  nothing  more  stimu 
lating  than  the  capacity  to  say  on  occasion,  '  I  don't  know/ 
fiat  and  unqualified.  He  sees  everywhere,  the  readiness  to 
be  clever  instead  of  true.  So  many  New  Yorkers,  he  says, 
are  like  fishes,  that,  knowing  water,  disclaim  the  possi 
bility  of  air. 

"  You  know,  Beth,  Bedient  never  encountered  what 
America  was  thinking  and  reading,  until  a  few  months 
ago  down  on  his  Island.  We  are  editorialists  in  the 


126  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

writing  game,  he  declares,  what-shall-I-write-about-to- 
day-folks!  We  don't  wait  for  fulness,  but  wear  out 
brain  thin  bandying  about  what  drops  on  it.  If  we  would 
wait  until  we  were  full  men,  we  would  have  to  write,  and 
not  drive  ourselves  to  the  work " 

"  Oh,  I  do  believe  that !  "  Beth  said.  "  We  need  to  be 
reminded  of  that." 

"  That  ive  is  very  pretty,  Beth,"  Cairns  went  on. 
"...  Such  a  queer  finished  incident  happened  yester 
day.  I  hunted  up  Bedient  at  noon,  and  we  talked  about 
some  of  these  matters.  And  then  we  met  Ritchold  for 
luncheon.  It  was  at  Teuton's.  I  took  Bedient  aside  and 
whispered  with  a  flourish,  '  One  of  our  ten-thousand-a- 
year  editors,  Andrew.'  .  .  .  '  What  makes  him  worth 
that  ? '  he  asked.  *  He  knows  what  the  people  want/  I 
replied.  Can  you  see  us,  Beth?  .  .  . 

"  The  luncheon  was  interesting.  Bedient  and  Ritchold 
got  together  beautifully.  The  talk  was  brisk  and  big, 
just  occasionally  cutting  the  edges  of  shop.  Both  men 
came  to  me  afterward.  '  Splendid  chap,  your  friend,' 
Ritchold  said.  '  A  man  who  has  seen  so  much  and  can 
talk  so  well,  ought  to  write.  Thanks  for  meeting  him/ 

"  '  I  was  very  glad  to  meet  Mr.  Ritchold/  Bedient  re 
marked  later — hours  later — after  I  had  given  up  hope 
of  hearing  on  the  subject.  '  I  think  he  shows  where  one 
trouble  lies.  .  .  .  It's  in  him  and  his  kind,  David. 
His  periodical  sells  to  the  great  number.  He  is  a  very 
bright  man,  and  his  art  is  in  knowing  what  the  great  num 
ber  wants.  Being  brighter,  and  of  finer  discernment,  than 
those  who  buy  his  product,  he  debases  his  taste  to  make 
his  organs  relish  the  coarser  article.  That's  the  first  evil 
— prostituting  himself.  .  .  .  Now  a  people  glutted 
with  what  it  wants  is  a  stagnant  people.  Its  only  hope  is 
in  such  men  as  Ritchold  leading  them  to  the  higher  ways. 
In  refusing,  he  wrongs  the  public — the  second  evil.  .  .  . 
Again,  in  blunting  his  own  sensibilities  and  catering  to 
the  common,  he  stands  as  a  barrier  between  the  public 


Two  Davids  Come  to  Beth  127 

and  real  creative  energy.  He  and  the  public  are  one.  A 
prostituted  taste  and  a  stagnant  popular  mind  are  alike 
repelled  by  reality.  Rousing  creative  power  glances  from 
them  both.  So  his  third  evil  is  the  busheling  and  harrying 
of  genius.  .  .  .  There  he  stands,  forcing  genius  to 
be  common,  to  appear,  paying  well  and  swiftly  only  for 
that  which  is  common.  Genius  writhes  a  bit,  starves  a 
bit,  but  the  terrible  needs  of  this  complicated  life  have 
him  by  the  throat  until  he  cries  "  Enough,"  and  presently 
is  common,  indeed.' " 

"  He  need  not  have  spoken  of  writing  only,"  Beth 
remarked.  "  They  must  have  taught  him  to  see  things 
clearly  in  the  Orient.  .  .  .  You  know,  David,  I  found 
it  hard  last  night,  and  a  little  now,  to  fix  his  point  of 
view  and  his  power  to  express  it,  with  the  life  of  outdoor 
men,  the  '  enlisted/  as  he  says,  rather  than  the  '  commis 
sioned  '  folk  of  this  world." 

"  He  has  done  much  reading,  but  more  thinking," 
Cairns  declared.  "  He  has  been  much  alone,  and  he  has 
lived.  He  sees  inside.  '  The  great  books  of  the  world 
are  little  books/  he  said  recently,  '  books  that  a  pocket  or 
a  haversack  will  hold.  You  don't  realize  what  they  have 
given  you,  until  you  sit  down  in  a  roomful  of  ordinary 
books  and  see  how  tame  and  common  the  quantities  are/ 
And  it's  true.  Look  at  the  big  men  of  few  books.  They 
learned  to  look  inside  of  books  they  had !  He  knows  the 
Bible,  and  the  Bhagavad  Gita," 

"  Oh,  I'm  beginning  to  understand,"  Beth  exclaimed. 
"  Nights  alone  with  the  Bible  and  the  Bhagavad  Gita, 
and  one's  schooldays — a  weathering  from  the  open  and 
seasoning  from  the  seas.  Men  have  such  chances  to  learn 
the  perils  and  passions  of  the  earth,  but  so  few  do.  .  .  » 
I  see  it  now.  It  isn't  remarkable  that  we  find  him  poised 
and  finished,  but  that  he  should  have  had  the  inclination 
naturally — a  child  among  sailors — for  the  great  little 
books  of  the  world,  and  through  them  and  his  nights 
alone,  to  have  kept  his  balance  and  builded  his  power." 


128  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  That's  the  point,  Beth.  New  York  is  crowded  with 
voyagers,  and  men  of  mileage  to  the  moon,  but  what 
made  this  powerful  unlettered  boy  look  for  the  inside  of 
things  ?  What  made  him  different  from  the  packers  and 
cooks  and  sailors  around  the  world,  boys  of  the  open  who 
never  become  men  except  physically  ?  " 

Beth  answered :  "  I  think  we'll  find  that  has  to  do  with 
Mr.  Bedient's  mother,  David." 

"  I  know  he'd  be  thrilled  to  hear  you  say  that." 

"Is  she  still  living?" 

"  No,  or  he'd  be  with  her.  .  .  .  He  has  never 
spoken  to  me  of  her.  And  yet  I'm  sure  she  is  the  unseen 
glow  upon  his  life.  I  think  he  would  tell  you  about  her. 
Only  a  woman  could  draw  that  from  him.  .  .  .  He 
saw  no  one  but  you  last  night ;  did  all  his  talking  to  you, 
Beth." 

"  I'm  the  flaringest,  flauntingest  posy  in  the  garden. 
I  call  the  bees  first,"  she  said  dryly,  but  there  was  a  flit 
ting  of  ghostly  memories  through  her  mind.  "  And  then 
I'm  an  extraordinary  listener." 

"  Beth,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  no  one  knows  better  than 
I,  that  it  is  you  who  send  the  bees  away." 

She  laughed  at  him.  "  We  found  each  other  out  in 
time,  David.  .  .  .  Too  much  artist  between  us.  We'd 
surely  taint  each  other,  don't  you  see?  " 

"  I  never  could  see  that " 

"  That's  being  polite ;  and  one  must  be  polite.  .  .  . 
We  are  really  fine  friends,  better  than  ever  after  to-day, 
and  that's  something  for  a  pair  of  incomplete  New 
Yorkers." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Beth,"  said  Cairns.  "  Shall  I  bring  Bedient  over 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  No,  please.    At  least  not  to-morrow." 

He  was  surprised.  Beth  saw  it ;  saw,  too,  that  he  had 
observed  how  Bedient  talked  to  her  last  night.  Mrs. 
Wordling  had  not  missed  comment  here.  .  .  .  Cairns 


Two  Davids  Come  to  Beth  129 

must  not  think,  however,  that  she  would  avoid  Andrew 
Bedient.  She  fell  into  her  old  resource  of  laughing  at 
the  whole  matter. 

"  I  can't  afford  to  take  any  chances,  David.  He's  too 
attractive.  Falling  in  love  is  pure  dissipation  to  one  of 
my  temperament,  and  I  have  too  many  contracts  to  fill. 
I'm  afraid  of  your  sailor-man.  Think  of  the  character 
you  built  about  him  to-day  in  this  room.  If  he  didn't 
prove  up  to  that,  what  a  pity  for  us  all !  And  if  he  did, 
what  a  pity  for  poor  Beth,  if  he  started  coming  here! 
.  .  .  Anyway,  I've  ceased  to  be  a  bachelor-girl.  I'm 
a  spinster.  .  .  .  That  word  hypnotizes  me.  I'm  all 
ice  again.  I  shall  know  Mr.  Bedient  ethically  and  not 
otherwise." 

Cairns  laughed  with  her,  but  something  within  hurt. 
His  relation  with  Beth  Truba  had  been  long,  and  increas 
ingly  delightful,  since  the  ordeal  of  becoming  just  a  friend 
was  safely  past.  He  realized  that  only  a  beautiful  woman 
could  speak  this  way,  even  in  fun  to  an  old  friend.  .  .  . 
His  work  dealt  with  wars,  diplomacy  and  politics ;  his  fic 
tions  were  twenty-year-old  appeals,  so  that  Beth  felt  her 
present  depth  of  mood  to  be  fathoms  deeper  than  his  story 
instinct. 

"  You  know,  David,  I've  said  for  years  there  were  no 
real  lovers  in  the  world,"  she  went  on  lightly.  "  But  your 
friend  was  full  of  touches  last  night  such  as  one  dreams 
of :  that  colored  pane  in  the  hallway,  when  he  was  a  little 
boy  somewhere,  and  the  light  that  frightened  him  from  it. 
.  .  .  '  One  of  the  Chinese  knifed  me,  but  he 
died.'  .  .  .  That  big  '  X  '  of  the  Truxton  flung  stern 
up,  as  she  sank;  .  .  .  and  about  the  old  Captain 
wriggling  his  shoulder  bashfully  for  his  young  friend's 
arm  at  the  last.  .  .  .  It  is  altogether  enticing,  in 
the  light  of  what  you  have  brought  to-day.  Really  you 
must  take  him  away.  Red-haired  spinsters  mustn't  be 
bothered,  nor  imprisoned  in  magic  spring  weather. 
When  does  he  return  to  his  Island  ?  " 
9 


130  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  He  hasn't  spoken  of  that,  but  I  do  know,  Beth,  that 
Bedient  will  never  sink  back  into  the  common,  from  your 
first  fine  impressions.  I've  known  him  for  years,  you 
see " 

She  put  down  her  brush  and  said  theatrically,  "  I  feel 
the  fatal  premonitive  impulses.  .  .  .  Spinster,  spin 
ster;  Beth  Truba,  spinster!  .  .  .  That's  my  sal 
vation." 

"  You're  the  finest  woman  I  know,"  Cairns  said. 
"  You  know  best,  but  I  doubt  if  Bedient  will  go  back  to 
Equatoria  without  seeing  more  of  you " 

"Did  he  speak  of  such  a  thing?" 

"  That  isn't  his  way " 

"  I  am  properly  rebuked." 

.  .  .  Cairns  was  at  the  door.  "  Did  you  say,  Beth, 
that  the  Grey  One  is  engaged  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Pure  tragedy.  The  man  is  fifty  and  financial.  .  .  . 
She's  a  courageous  girl,  but  I  think  under  her  dear  smile 
is  a  broken  nerve.  She  has  about  reached  the  end  of  her 
rope.  The  demand  for  her  work  has  fallen  off.  One  of 
those  inexplicable  things.  She  had  such  a  good  start  after 
returning  from  Paris.  And  now  with  Handel's  expensive 
studio,  probably  not  less  than  three  thousand  a  year  for 
that,  debt  and  unsought  pictures  are  eating  out  her  heart. 
There's  much  more  to  the  story — I  mean  leading  up. 
Help  her  if  you  can,  or  she  must  go  to  the  arms  and 
house  of  a  certain  rich  man.  .  .  .  What  a  blithe  thing 
is  Life,  and  how  little  you  predatory  men  know  about  it!  " 

They  regarded  each  other,  their  thoughts  poised  upon 
an  //.  Beth  spoke  first: 

"  If  your  friend " 

"  But  Bedient  didn't  look  into  the  eyes  of  the  Grey  One 
when  he  told  his  tale  of  the  sea,"  Cairns  said,  leaving. 


A  FEW  nights  after  the  party,  Bedient  was  left  to  his 
own  devices,  Cairns  being  appointed  out  of  town.  He 
attended  the  performance  of  a  famous  actress  in  Hcdda 
Gabler.  .  .  .  Bedient  was  early.  The  curtain  inter 
ested  him.  It  pictured  an  ancient  Grecian  ruin,  a  gloomy, 
heavy  thing,  but  not  inartistic.  Beneath  was  a  couplet 
from  Kingsley: 

"  So  fleet  the  works  of  men,  back  to  their  earth  again, 
Ancient  and  holy  things  fade  like  a  dream." 

Sensitive  to  such  effects,  he  sat,  musing  and  contem 
plative,  when  suddenly  his  spirit  was  imperiously  aroused 
by  the  orchestra.  The  'celli  had  opened  the  Andante 
from  the  C  Minor  Symphony.  For  ten  minutes,  the  music 
held  his  every  sense.  ...  It  unfolded  as  of  old, 
but  not  its  full  message.  There  was  a  meaning  in  it  for 
him !  He  heard  the  three  voices — man,  woman  and  angel. 
It  was  the  woman's  tragedy.  The  lustrous  Third  Pres 
ence  was  for  her.  The  man's  figure  was  obscure,  disinte 
grate.  .  .  .  Bedient  was  so  filled  with  the  mystery, 
that  the  play  had  but  little  surface  of  his  consciousness 
during  the  first  act.  He  enjoyed  it,  but  could  not  give  all 
he  had.  Finally,  as  Hedda  was  ordering  the  young  writer 
to  drink  wine  to  get  "  vine-leaves  in  his  hair,"  there 
was  an  explosion  back  of  the  scenes.  Bedient,  as  did 
many  others,  thought  at  first  it  belonged  to  the  piece.  The 
faces  of  the  players  fell  away  in  thick  gloom,  the  voices 
sank  into  crazy  echoes,  and  the  curtain  went  down.  Be- 
dient's  last  look  at  the  stage  brought  him  the  impression 
of  squirming  chaos.  Fire  touched  the  curtain  behind, 
disfiguring  and  darkening  the  pictured  ruin.  Then  a 
woman  near  him  screamed.  The  back  of  a  chair  snapped, 
and  now  scores  took  up  the  woman's  cry. 

131 


132  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

The  crowd  caught  a  succession  of  hideous  ideas: 
of  being  trapped  and  burned,  of  inadequate  exits,  murder 
ous  gases,  bodies  piled  at  the  doors — all  the  detailed  news- 
horror  of  former  theatre  disasters.  And  the  crowd  did 
all  it  could  to  repeat  the  worst  of  these.  Bedient  encoun 
tered  an  altogether  new  strength,  the  strength  of  a  fren 
zied  mass,  and  to  his  nostrils  came  a  sick  odor  from  the 
fear-mad.  The  lights  had  not  been  turned  on  with  the 
fall  of  the  curtain.  Untrained  to  cities,  Bedient  was 
astonished  at  the  fright  of  the  people,  the  fright  of  the 
men !  .  .  .  The  lines  of  Hedda  recurred  to  him,  and 
he  called  out  laughingly: 

"  Now's  the  time  for  'vine-leaves  in  your  hair/  men !  " 

He  moved  among  the  seats  free  from  the  aisle.  A 
body  lay  at  his  feet.  Groping  forward,  his  hand  touched 
a  woman's  hair.  He  smiled  at  the  thought  that  here  was 
one  for  him  to  help,  and  lifted  her,  turning  to  look  at 
the  glare  through  the  writhing  curtain.  There  were 
voices  behind  in  that  garish  furnace ;  and  now  the  lights 
filled  the  theatre  again.  Bedient  quickly  made  his  way 
with  others  to  a  side  exit,  the  red  light  of  which  had  not 
attracted  the  crowd. 

The  woman  was  light  in  his  arms.  She  wore  a  white 
net  waist,  and  her  brown  hair  was  unfastened.  She  had 
crushed  a  large  bunch  of  English  violets  to  her  mouth 
and  nostrils,  to  keep  out  the  smoke  and  gas.  A  peculiar 
thing  about  it  was,  Bedient  did  not  see  her  face.  In  the 
alley,  he  handed  his  burden  to  a  man  and  woman,  stand 
ing  together  at  the  door  of  a  car,  and  went  back.  One 
of  the  actors  had  stepped  in  front  of  the  stage,  and  was 
calling  out  that  the  fire  was  under  control,  that  there  was 
no  danger  whatever.  The  roar  from  the  gallery  passages 
subsided.  Only  a  few  were  hurt,  since  the  theatre  was 
modern  and  the  main  exit  ample.  .  .  .  Bedient  re 
turned  to  the  side-door  but  the  woman  he  had  carried 
forth  was  gone,  probably  with  the  pair  in  the  car.  He 
decided  to  see  the  end  of  Hedda  Gabler  another  time. 


Two  Lesser  Adventures  133 

The  Andante,  the  Grecian  ruin  and  vine-leaves  were 
curiously  blended  in  his  mind.  .  .  . 

Though  several  days  had  passed  since  the  Club  affair, 
he  had  not  seen  Beth  Truba  again.  This  fact  largely 
occupied  his  thinking.  He  would  not  telephone  nor  call, 
without  a  suggestion  from  her.  The  moment  had  not 
come  to  bring  up  her  name  to  David  Cairns,  who,  since 
his  talk  with  Beth,  had  of  course  nothing  to  offer.  So 
Bedient  revolved  in  outer  darkness.  .  .  .  The  morn 
ing  after  Hedda  Gabler  he  found  a  very  good  chestnut 
saddle-mare  in  an  up-town  stable,  and  rode  for  an  hour 
or  two  in  the  Park,  returning  to  the  Club  after  eleven. 
At  the  office,  he  was  told  that  Mrs.  Wordling  had  asked 
for  him  to  go  up  to  her  apartment,  as  soon  as  he  came 
in.  Five  minutes  later,  he  knocked  at  her  door. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Bedient  ?  "  she  called.  The  voice 
came  seemingly  from  an  inner  room;  a  cultivated  voice, 
with  that  husky  note  in  it  which  charms  the  multitude. 
Had  he  not  a  good  mental  picture  of  Mrs.  Wordling,  he 
would  have  imagined  some  enchanted  Dolores.  .  .  . 
"  How  good  of  you  to  come !  Just  wait  one  moment." 

The  door  opened  partially  after  a  few  seconds,  and  he 
caught  the  gleam  of  a  bare  arm,  but  the  actress  had 
disappeared  when  he  entered.  Bedient  was  in  a  room 
where  a  torrential  shower  had  congealed  into  photo 
graphs. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said  at  last,  emerging  from  the 
inner  room,  unhooked.  ..."  I've  been  trying  to  get 
a  maid  up  here  for  the  past  half-hour.  ...  I  think 
there's  only  three  or  four  between  the  shoulder-blades — 
won't  you  do  them  for  me?  " 

She  backed  up  to  him  bewitchingly.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Wordling  was  in  the  twenty-nine  period.  If  the  thing 
can  be  imagined,  she  gave  the  impression  of  being  both 
voluptuous  and  athletic.  There  was  a  rose-dusk  tone 
under  her  healthy  skin,  where  the  neck  went  singing 
down  to  the  shoulder,  singing  of  warm  blood  and  plen- 


134  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

teous.  Hers  was  the  mid-height  of  woman,  so  that 
Bedient  was  amusedly  conscious  of  the  length  of  his 
hands,  as  he  stood  off  for  a  second  surveying  the  work 
to  do. 

"  What's  the  trouble ;  can't  you?  " 

There  was  a  purring  tremble  in  her  tone  that  stirred 
the  wanderer,  only  it  was  the  past  entirely  that  moved 
within  him.  The  moment  had  little  more  rousing  for 
him,  than  if  he  were  asked  to  fasten  a  child's  romper. 
.  .  .  Yet  he  did  not  miss  that  here  was  one  of  the 
eternal  types  of  man's  pursuit — as  natural  a  man's  woman 
as  ever  animated  a  roomful  of  photographs — a  woman 
who  could  love  much,  and,  as  Heine  added,  many. . 

"  I'll  just  throw  a  shawl  around,  if  you  can't,"  she 
urged,  nudging  her  shoulder. 

"  Far  too  warm  for  shawls,"  he  laughed.  "  I  was 
only  getting  it  straight  in  my  mind  before  beginning. 
You  know  it's  tricksome  for  one  accustomed  mainly  to 
men's  affairs.  .  .  .  There's  one — I  won't  pinch — and 
the  second — anytime  you  can't  find  a  maid,  Mrs.  Word- 
ling — I'm  in  the  Club  a  good  deal — there  they  are,  if  they 

don't  fly  open "  and  his  hands  fell  with  a  pat  on  each 

of  her  shoulders. 

Facing  him,  Mrs.  Wordling  encountered  a  perfectly 
unembarrassed  young  man,  and  a  calm  depth  of  eye  that 
seemed  to  have  come  and  gone  from  her  world,  and  taken 
away  nothing  to  remember  that  was  wildly  exciting. 
.  .  .  At  least  three  women  of  her  acquaintance  were 
raving  about  Andrew  Bedient,  two  artists  with  a  madness 
for  sub-surface  matters  having  to  do  with  men.  Mrs. 
Wordling  believed  herself  a  more  finished  artist  in  these 
affairs.  She  wanted  to  prove  this,  while  Bedient  was  the 
dominant  man-interest  of  the  Club. 

And  now  he  surprised  her.  He  was  different  from 
the  man  she  had  pictured.  Equally  well,  she  could 
have  located  him — had  he  kissed  her,  or  appeared  con 
fused  with  embarrassment.  Most  men  of  her  acquaint- 


Two  Lesser  Adventures  135 

ance  would  have  kissed  her;  others  would  have  proved 
clumsy  and  abashed,  but  none  could  have  passed  through 
the  test  she  offered  with  both  denial  and  calm.  .  .  . 
She  wanted  the  interest  of  Bedient,  because  the  other 
women  fancied  him ;  she  wanted  to  show  them  and  "  that 
hag,  Kate  Wilkes,"  what  a  man  desires  in  a  woman; 
and  now  a  third  reason  evolved.  Bedient  had  proved  to 
her  something  of  a  challenging  sensation.  He  was  alto 
gether  too  calm  to  be  inexperienced.  Every  instinct  had 
unerringly  informed  her  of  his  bounteous  ardor,  yet  he 
had  refrained.  That  which  she  had  seen  first  and  last 
about  him — the  excellence  of  his  masculine  attractions — 
had  suddenly  become  important  because  no  longer  im 
personal.  Mrs.  Wordling  was  fully  equipped  to  carry 
out  her  ideas. 

"  You  did  that  very  well,"  she  said,  dropping  her  eyes 
before  his  steady  gaze,  "  for  one  experienced  only  with 
men-matters.  And  now,  I  suppose  you  want  to  know 
why  I  took  the  pains  to  ask  you  here ;  oh,  no,  not  to  hook 
me  up.  ...  I  didn't  know  you  would  get  back  so 
soon;  I  had  just  left  word  a  few  moments  before  you 
came.  .  .  .  Wasn't  it  great  the  way  a  dreadful  dis 
aster  was  averted  at  the  Hedda  Gabler  performance  last 
night  ?  .  .  .  Did  you  see  the  morning  paper  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Bedient.    "  I  was  out  early." 

"  Why,  it  appears  that  after  the  explosion,  when 
everyone  was  crushing  toward  the  doors,  some  man  in 
the  audience  took  the  words  of  Hcdda  and  steadied  the 
crowd  with  them,  as  men  and  women  struggled  in  the 
darkness.  .  .  .  '  Now's  the  time  for  vine-leaves ! '  he 
called  out.  An  unknown — wasn't  he  lovely  ?  " 

She  placed  the  paper  before  him,  and  he  read  a  really 
remarkable  account  of  "  the  vine-leaf  man  "  magnetizing 
the  mob  and  carrying  out  a  fainting  girl.  It  was  absurd 
to  him,  though  Ibsen's  subtlety,  queerly  enough,  gave  the 
story  force.  .  .  .  No  face  of  the  audience  had  im 
pressed  him;  none  had  appeared  to  notice  him  in  the 


136  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

dark.  He  wondered  how  the  newspaper  had  obtained  the 
account.  ...  .,  .  There  was  a  light,  quick  knock  at  the 
door. 

"  It  isn't  very  often  that  a  newspaper  story  is  gotten 
up  so  effectively,"  Mrs.  Wordling  was  saying.  Appar 
ently  she  had  not  heard  the  knock.  Her  voice,  however, 
had  fallen  in  a  half-whisper,  more  penetrating  than  her 
usual  low  tones.  "  Do  you  suppose  the  hero  will  permit 
his  name  to  be  known  ?  " 

The  knock  was  repeated  in  a  brief,  that-ends-it  fash 
ion.  Mrs.  Wordling  with  a  sudden  streak  of  clumsiness 
half  overturned  a  chair,  as  she  sped  to  the  door.  Bedient 
did  not  at  once  penetrate  the  entire  manoeuver,  but  his 
nerve  and  will  tightened  with  a  premonition  of  unpleas 
antness. 

Beth  Truba  was  admitted.  Quite  as  he  would  have 
had  her  do,  the  artist  merely  turned  from  one  to  the 
other  a  quick  glance,  and  ignored  the  matter;  yet  that 
glance  had  stamped  him  with  her  conception  of  his  com 
monness. 

"  I  could  just  as  well  have  sent  the  poster  over,"  Beth 
said,  "  but,  as  I  'phoned,  it  is  well  to  see,  if  it  suits 
exactly,  before  putting  it  out  of  mind " 

"  Lovely  of  you,  dear.  I'm  so  glad  Mr.  Bedient  is 
here  to  see  it !"  Mrs.  Wordling's  brown  eyes  swam  with 
happiness. 

Beth  was  in  brown.  Her  profile  was  turned  to  Be 
dient,  as  she  unrolled  the  large,  heavy  paper.  .  .  . 
The  work  was  remarkable  in  its  effect  of  having  been 
done  in  a  sweep.  The  subtle  and  characteristic  appeal 
of  the  actress  (so  truly  her  own,  that  she  would  have 
been  the  last  to  notice  it)  had  been  caught  in  truth  and 
cleverly,  the  restlessness  of  her  empty  arms  and  eager 
breast.  The  face  was  finer,  and  the  curves  of  the  figure 
slightly  lengthened;  the  whole  in  Beth's  sweeping  way, 
rather  masterful. 

"  Splendid !  "  Mrs.  Wordling  exclaimed,  and  to  Be 
dient  added:  "It's  for  the  road.  Isn't  it  a  winner?" 


Two  Lesser  Adventures  137 

"  Yes,  I  do  like  it,"  Bedient  said. 

Beth  was  glad  that  he  didn't  enlarge. 

"  I  must  be  on  my  way,  then,"  she  said.  "  I'm  going 
into  the  country  to-morrow  for  the  week-end.  .  .  . 
We're  getting  the  old  house  fixed  up  for  the  winter. 
Mother  writes  that  the  repairs  are  on  in  full  blast,  and 
that  I'm  needed.  Last  Saturday  when  I  got  there  the 
plumbers  had  just  come.  Very  carefully  they  took  out  all 
the  plumbing  and  laid  it  on  the  front  lawn;  then  put  it 
back.  .  .  .  Good-by." 

"Good-by,  and  thank  you,  Beth." 

"  I  am  glad  that  it  pleases  you,  Mrs.  Wordling." 
Her  tone  was  pleasantly  poised. 

Bedient  missed  nothing  now.  He  did  not  blame  Mrs. 
Wordling  for  using  him.  He  saw  that  she  was  out  of  her 
element  with  the  others ;  therefore  not  at  her  best  trying 
to  be  one  with  them.  In  her  little  strategies,  she  was 
quite  true  to  herself.  He  could  not  be  irritated,  though 
he  was  very  sorry.  Of  course,  there  could  be  no  explana 
tion.  His  own  innocence  was  but  a  humorous  aspect  of 
the  case.  The  trying  part  was  that  look  in  Beth  Truba's 
eyes,  which  told  him  how  bored  she  was  by  this  sort  of 
commonness. 

Then  there  was  to-morrow  and  Sunday  with  her 
away.  In  her  brown  dress  and  hat,  glorious  and  away. 

Bedient  went  away,  too. 


THIRTEENTH  CHAPTER 

ABOUT  SHADOWY  SISTERS 

BETH  TRUBA  hadn't  the  gift  of  talking  about  the 
things  that  hurt  her.  She  had  met  all  her  conflicts 
in  solitudes  of  her  own  finding ;  and  there  they  had  been 
consummated,  like  certain  processes  of  nature,  far  from 
the  gaze  of  man.  She  had  found  the  world  deranged 
from  every  girlish  ideal.  Full  grown  young  men  could 
be  so  beautiful  to  her  artist's  eyes,  that  years  were  re 
quired  to  realize  that  these  splendid  exteriors  held  more 
often  than  not,  little  more  than  strutting  half-truths  and 
athletic  vanities. 

Whistler,  the  master,  had  entered  the  class-room  unan 
nounced,  where  Beth  was  studying,  as  a  girl  in  Paris. 
Glancing  about  the  walls,  his  eyes  fastened  upon  a  sketch 
of  hers.  He  asked  the  teacher  for  the  pupil  who  did  it, 
and  uplifted  Beth's  face  to  his,  touching  her  chin  and 
forehead  lightly. 

Then  he  whistled  and  said :  "  Off  hand,  I  should  say 
that  you  are  to  become  an  artist;  but  now  that  I  look 
closely  into  your  face,  I  am  afraid  you  will  become  a 
woman." 

Tentatively,  she  was  an  artist;  she  would  not  grant 
more.  ...  A  little  while  before,  she  had  been  very 
close  to  becoming  a  woman.  None  but  the  Shadowy 
Sister  knew  how  near.  (The  Shadowy  Sister  was  an 
institution  of  Beth's — her  conscience,  her  spirit, her  higher 
self,  or  all  three  in  one.  She  came  from  an  old  fairy- 
book.  A  little  girl  had  longed  for  a  playmate,  even  as 
Beth,  and  one  day  beside  a  fountain  appeared  a  Shadowy 
Sister.  She  could  stay  a  while,  for  she  loved  the  little 
girl,  but  confessed  it  was  much  happier  where  she  lived.) 
.  .  .  Shadowy  Sisters  for  little  girls  who  have  no  play 
mates,  and  for  women  who  have  no  confidantes. 

Under  Beth's  mirth,  during  the  recent  talk  with  David 
138 


About  Shadowy  Sisters  139 

Cairns,  had  been  much  of  verity.  She  was  carrying  an 
unhealed  wound,  which  neither  he  nor  the  world  under 
stood.  In  Andrew  Bedient  she  had  discerned  a  fine  and 
deeply-endowed  nature — glimpses — as  if  he  were  some 
great  woman's  gift  to  the  world,  her  soul  and  all.  But 
Beth's  romantic  nature  had  been  desolated  so  short  a 
time  ago,  that  she  despised  even  her  willingness  to  put 
forth  faith  again.  .  .  .  Such  fruit  must  perish  on  the 
vine,  if  only  common  hands  attend  the  harvest. 

Women  like  Beth  Truba  learn  in  bitterness  to  protect 
themselves  from  possibilities  of  disillusionment.  They 
hate  their  hardness,  yet  hardness  is  better  than  rebuilding 
sanctuaries  that  have  been  brutally  stormed.  For  one 
must  build  of  faith,  radium-rare  to  those  who  have  lost 
their  intrinsic  supply. 

The  Other  Man  had  been  a  find  of  Beth's.  He  had 
come  to  her  mother's  house  years  ago — a  boy.  He  had 
seemed  quick  to  learn  the  ways  of  real  people,  and  the 
things  a  man  must  know  to  delight  a  woman's  under 
standing.  In  so  many  ways,  the  finishing  touches  of 
manhood  were  put  upon  him  gracefully,  that  Beth  gloried 
in  the  work  of  adding  treasures  of  mind  and  character. 
She  had  even  made  his  place  in  the  world,  through  strong 
friends  of  her  own  winning. 

Beth  was  a  year  or  two  older.  The  boy  had  grown 
splendid  in  appearance,  when  she  discovered  she  was  giv 
ing  him  much  that  he  must  hold  sacredly,  or  inflict  havoc 
upon  the  giver.  ...  In  moments  when  she  was 
happiest,  there  would  come  a  thought  that  something 
would  happen.  .  .  .  The  young  man  did  not  fully 
understand  what  caused  the  break.  This  may  be  the 
key  to  the  very  limitation  which  made  him  impossible— 
this  lack  of  delicacy  of  perception.  Certainly  he  did  not 
know  the  greatness  of  Beth's  giving,  nor  the  fineness  she 
had  come  to  expect  from  him.  .  .  .  She  did  not  ex 
actly  love  him  less,  but  rather  as  a  mother  than  a  maid, 
since  she  had  to  forgive. 


140  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

A  woman  may  love  a  man  whom  she  is  too  wise  to 
marry.  There  are  man-comets,  splendid,  flashing,  un 
substantial,  who  sweep  into  the  zones  of  attraction  of  all 
the  planet  sisterhood ;  but  better,  if  one  cannot  have  a 
sun  all  to  oneself,  is  a  little  cold  moon  for  the  com 
panion  intimate.  .  .  .  Something*  that  the  young  man 
had  said  or  done  was  pure  disturbance  to  Beth,  compatible 
with  no  system  of  development.  She  had  sent  him  from 
her,  as  one  who  had  stood  before  her  rooted  among 
the  second-rate. 

Only  Beth  knew  the  depth  of  the  hurt.  All  the  fem 
inine  of  her  had  turned  to  aching  iron.  The  Shadowy 
Sister  seemed  riveted  to  a  hideous  clanking  thing,  and 
all  the  dream-children  crushed. 

Her  friends  said :  "  Who  would  have  thought  that 
after  making  such  a  man  of  her  protege,  Beth  would  re 
fuse  to  marry  him?  Ah,  Beth  loves  her  pictures  better 
than  she  could  love  any  mere  man.  She  was  destined 
to  be  true  to  her  work.  Only  the  great  women  are  called 
upon  to  make  this  choice.  Nature  keeps  them  virgin  to 
reveal  at  the  last  unshadowed  beauty.  This  refusal  is  the 
signet  of  her  greatness." 

Beth  heard  a  murmur  of  this  talk  and  laughed  bitterly. 

"  No,"  she  said  to  her  studio-walls.  "  It's  only  be 
cause  Beth  is  a  bit  choosey.  She  isn't  a  very  great  artist, 
and  if  she  were,  she  wouldn't  hesitate  to  become  Mrs. 
Right  Man,  though  it  made  her  falter  forever,  eye  and 
hand." 

In  her  own  heart,  she  would  rather  have  had  her 
visions  of  happiness  in  children,  than  to  paint  the  most 
exquisite  flowers  and  faces  in  the  comprehension  of  Art. 
.  .  .  For  days,  for  weeks,  she  had  remained  in  her 
studio  seeing  no  one.  Some  big  work  was  rumored,  and 
she  was  left  alone  with  understanding  among  real  people, 
just  as  was  Vina  Nettleton.  .  .  .  But  she  was  too 
maimed  within  to  work.  She  wanted  to  rush  off*  to  Asia 
somewhere,  and  bury  herself  alive,  but  pride  kept  her  at 


About  Shadowy  Sisters  141 

home.  As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  move  and  think  coher 
ently,  she  sought  her  few  friends  again.  Even  her  dear 
est,  Vina  Nettleton,  had  realized  but  a  tithe  of  the 
tragedy. 

Beth  Truba  reached  her  studio  again  Monday  noon. 
Among  the  letters  in  her  post-box,  was  one  she  felt  in 
stinctively  to  be  from  Andrew  Bedient,  though  it  was 
post-marked  Albany.  She  hesitated  to  open  the  letter  at 
first,  for  fear  that  he  had  attempted  to  explain  his  pres 
ence  in  Mrs.  Wordling's  room.  This  would  affix  him 
eternally  to  commonness  in  her  mind.  He  had  a  right 
to  go  to  Mrs.  Wordling's  room,  but  she  had  thought  him 
other  than  the  sort  which  pursues  such  obvious  attrac 
tions.  Especially  after  what  Cairns  had  said,  she  was 
hurt  to  meet  him  there.  .  .  .  Beth  found  herself 
thinking  at  a  furious  rate,  on  the  mere  hazard  that  the 
letter  was  from  Bedient.  .  .  . 

Were  there  really  such  men  in  the  world  as  the 
Bedient  whom  Cairns  pictured,  and  believed  in?  Per 
sonally,  she  didn't  care  to  experiment,  but  there  was  a 
strange  reliance  in  the  thought  that  there  were  such 
men.  .  .  .  The  fine  nature  she  wanted  to  believe  in 
— wouldn't  have  written!  .  .  .  This  one  letter  alone 
remained  unopened — when  the  telephone  rang. 

It  was  Cairns,  who  inquired  if  she  had  heard  aught 
of  his  friend.  ..."  I  reached  town  Saturday 
morning,"  Cairns  went  on,  "  and  found  a  note  that  he 
would  be  away  for  the  day  and  possibly  Sunday;  didn't 
say  where  nor  why.  He  left  no  word  at  the  Club.  In 
fact,  Mrs.  Wordling  called  me  just  now  to  inquire,  volun 
teering  that  Bedient  had  been  in  her  world  Friday.  Ex 
cuse  me  for  bothering  you.  I've  an  idea  this  is  his  way 
when  a  gale  is  blowing  in  his  brain.  He  pushes  out  for 
solitude  and  sea-room." 

Beth  had  not  offered  to  assist.  The  Albany  letter 
might  not  be  his.  It  stared  at  her  now  from  the  library- 


142  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

table,  full-formed  black  writing.  There  were  no  two 
ways  about  a  single  letter.  It  was  the  writing  of  a  man 
who  had  not  covered  continents  of  white  paper.  "  Miss 
Beth  Truba  "  had  been  put  there  to  stay,  with  a  full  pen, 
and  as  if  pleasing  to  his  sight.  She  was  thinking — it 
would  be  well  if  Mrs.  Wordling  were  always  inquiring; 
and  that  the  day  would  be  spoiled  if  he  had  undertaken 
to  explain  things  in  this  letter.  .  .  . 

Beth  crossed  to  the  table,  placed  the  paper-cutter 
under  the  flap  and  slit  it  across.  Just  at  this  moment, 
the  door  of  the  elevator-shaft  opened  on  her  floor — and 
her  knocker  fell.  She  tossed  the  letter  under  the  leather 
cover  of  the  table,  and  admitted  Vina  Nettleton. 


FOURTEENTH  CHAPTER 

THIS  CLAY-AND-PAINT  AGE 

A  NEW  light  had  come  into  the  studio  of  Vina  Nettle- 
ton;  and  only  when  at  last  the  light  became  too  strong, 
and  the  struggle  too  close,  had  she  left  it  to  seek  her 
friend  Beth  Truba.  She  had  not  been  sleeping,  nor  re 
membering  to  eat ;  but  she  had  been  thinking  enough  for 
seven  artists,  in  the  long  hours,  when  the  light  was  bad 
for  work.  And  now  the  packing  was  worn  from  her 
nerve-ends,  so  that  she  wept  easily,  like  a  nervous  child, 
or  a  man  undone  from  drink. 

The  new  force  of  Andrew  Bedient  had  found  in  her  a 
larger  sensitiveness  than  even  in  David  Cairns.  That  long 
afternoon  which  he  had  spent  in  her  place  of  working 
and  living  was  to  her  a  visitation,  high  above  the  years. 
She  had  been  amazed  at  the  Grey  One,  for  preserving  a 
semblance  of  calm.  The  gratefulness  that  she  had  fal 
tered  was  but  a  sign  of  what  she  felt. 

The  figures  of  Jesus  in  her  room,  she  had  been  unable 
to  touch.  Bedient  had  made  her  see  the  Godhood  of 
the  Christ.  John  the  Baptist,  who  had  attained  the  apex 
of  manhood  and  prophecy,  had  called  himself  unworthy 
to  loose  the  latchet  of  His  shoes,  and  this  before  Jesus  had 
put  on  the  glory  of  the  Father. 

All  the  others  were  amazingly  nearer  to  her.  She 
saw  the  bleak  Iscariot  as  never  before,  and  his  darkened 
mother  emerged  a  step  out  of  the  gloom  of  ages.  The 
Romans  moved,  as  upon  a  stage,  before  her,  unlit  bat 
tling  faces,  clashing  voices  and  armor;  and  the  bearded 
Jews  heavily  collecting  and  confuting.  She  saw  the 
Eleven,  and  nearest  the  light,  the  frail  John,  the  brother 
of  James, — sad  young  face  and  ascetic  pallor.  .  .  . 
And  in  the  night,  she  heard  that  great  Voice  crying  in 
the  wilderness,  that  mighty  Forerunner,  the  returned 

143 


144  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Elias ;  next  to  Christ  Himself,  this  Baptist,  who  leaped 
in  the  womb  of  the  aged  Elizabeth,  when  the  Mother  of 
the  Saviour  entered  her  house  in  the  hill  country !  This 
cataclysmic  figure,  not  of  the  "  Stations,"  was  dominant  in 
the  background  of  them  all.  She  saw  him  second  to  the 
Christ  (for  was  he  not  a  prophet  in  the  elder  Scripture?) 
in  being  called  to  the  Father's  Godhood ;  and  Saint  Paul, 
of  that  nameless  thorn  in  the  flesh,  following  gloriously 
on  the  Rising  Road ! 

There  was  a  new  and  loving  friendliness  in  the  Marys. 
She  could  pray  to  them,  and  wait  for  greater  purity  to 
image  the  Saviour,  as  they  saw  Him.  .  .  .  And  one 
night  from  her  fire-frame,  staring  down  into  the  lurid 
precipices  of  the  city,  the  awful  question  preyed  upon 
her  lips,  "  Are  you  Jews  and  Romans  that  you  must  have 
again  the  blood  of  the  Christ,  to  show  you  the  way  to 
God  ? "  .  .  .  She  was  weeping,  and  would  have 
swooned,  but  something  in  her  consciousness  bade  her 
look  above.  There  were  the  infinite  worlds,  immensities 
of  time  and  space  and  evolving  souls ;  and  urging,  weav 
ing,  glorifying  all,  was  the  Holy  Spirit,  Mystic  Mother 
hood.  .  .  .  And  back  in  the  dark  of  her  studio,  she 
turned  among  creations  and  visions  and  longings.  Next 
morning  she  sat  upon  the  floor  and  wept,  because  she 
could  not  have  her  child  of  soul,  only  children  of  clay. 
.  .  .  Hours  afterward  she  was  fashioning  a  cross  with 
her  fingers,  and  was  suddenly  crushed  with  anguish  be 
cause  she  had  not  been  there  to  carry  the  cross  for  Him, 
to  confront  the  soldiery  and  take  the  cruel  burden,  and 
hear  His  Voice,  Whom  she  knew  now  to  be  the  Son  of 
God. 

The  women  embraced  in  that  rare  way  which  is 
neither  formal  nor  an  affectation.  They  had  long  liked 
and  admired  each  other. 

"  Why,  Vina, — it  has  been  weeks — how  did  you  man 
age  to  leave?" 


This  Clay-and-Paint  Age  145 

"  I  haven't  done  much — for  days,"  Vina  said,  ducking 
from  under  her  huge  hat,  and  tossing  it  with  both  hands 
upon  the  piano-top.  "  Not  since  he  came  up  with  the 
Grey  One  and  spoiled  my  little  old  ideas.  Let's  have 
some  tea  ?  " 

Beth  laughed  at  the  other,  until  Vina  moved  into  the 
circle  of  light,  and  her  face  showed  paler  and  more  trans 
parent  than  ever.  She  sat  down  upon  Beth's  working- 
stool,  elbows  on  knees,  and  stared  trance-like  at  her 
friend. 

"Why,  you  dear  little  dreamer,  what's  the  matter?" 
Beth  asked  quickly.  "  Who  is  the  destructive  he?  " 

"The  sailor-man  David  Cairns  called  us  together  to 
see.  He's  been  in  the  shadows  among  the  panels  ever 
since.  What  he  said  I  keep  hearing  again  and  again 


Beth  laughed  at  the  remarkable  way  Bedient  was 
besieging  her  own  studio,  without  appearing  in  person. 
"  But  Vina,  you've  been  living  like  a  Hindu  holy  man, 
and  no  one  can  do  that  in  New  York,  not  even  Hindus. 
I  order  you  to  eat  thrice  daily  and  tire  yourself  physi 
cally " 

"  I  eat,"  Vina  said,  looking  bored  and  helpless  at  the 
thought.  "  I  eat  and  I  do  enough  physical  work  to  tire  a 
stone-mason " 

"  But  I  can  see  through  you  to  the  bone !  I  think 
you  only  imagine  you  take  nourishment.  Oh,  Vina,  I 
know  your  life — handling  huge  hard  things  and  making 
them  lovely  with  pure  spirit.  I  must  take  better  care  of 
you.  Tell  me  all  about  it,  if  it  will  help." 

"  Beth,  please  don't  talk  about  pure  spirit,  meaning 
me.  I  used  to  be  able  to  stand  it,  but  not  any  more. 
The  Grey  One  does  that.  I  seem  to  suggest  it  to  flesh 
and  blood  people.  .  .  .  I'm  sure  he  didn't  see  me  so. 
He  looked  at  me,  as  if  to  say,  oh,  I  don't  know  what! 
.  I  wish  I  were  fish-cold!  I'm  all  over 
turned.  ...  I  just  met  Mary  McCullom  on  the  way 
over." 


146  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Beth  had  forgotten  the  name  for  the  moment.  She 
thought  Vina  was  about  to  tell  her  of  Bedient. 

"  Don't  you  remember  Mary  McCullom,  who  tried 
painting  for  awhile,  painted  one  after  another,  discolored 
and  shapeless  children,  wholly  bereft  and  unfortunate 
children?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Beth.  "  I  heard  she  had  mar 
ried " 

"  That's  just  it.  ...  Do  you  remember  how  she 
used  to  look — pinched,  evaporated,  as  one  looks  in  a 
factory  blue-light?  I  remember  calling  upon  her,  as  she 
was  giving1  up  her  last  studio.  We  sat  on  a  packing-case, 
while  they  took  out  her  pictures,  one  child  after  another, 
foundlings  which  had  come  to  her,  and  which  no  one 
would  take  nor  buy " 

"  Vina,  you're  cruel  to  her !  " 

"  Listen,  and  you'll  see  whom  I'm  cruel  to.  ...  I 
remember  telling  her  that  day  what  a  fearsome,  ineffect 
ual  thing  art  is  anyway.  .  .  .  How  spooky  thin  she 
looked,  and  her  face  was  yellow  in  patches!  My  heart 
was  wrung  with  her,  the  image  of  a  little  woman  with  no 
place,  no  heart  to  go  to,  all  her  dreams  of  girlhood  turned 
to  ghosts,  fit  only  to  run  from.  Then  she  admitted  that 
she  might  marry,  that  a  man  wanted  her,  but  her  wail 
was  that  she  was  mean  and  helpless,  a  failure ;  as  such  it 
was  cowardly  to  let  the  man  have  her,  hardly  a  square 
thing  for  a  girl  to  do.  Well,  I  perked  her  up  on  that. 
.  .  .  She  took  him ;  I  don't  even  know  him  by  sight, 
but  he's  a  man,  Beth  Truba!  Mind  you,  here  was  a 
woman  who  said  she  was  so  dismayed  and  distressed  and 
generally  bowled  over  by  living  twenty-seven  years,  that 
she  hadn't  the  heart  left  to  love  anybody.  But  he  took 
her,  and  he's  a  man " 

"  That  seems  to  charm  you,"  Beth  ventured.  "  'He 
took  her,  and  he's  a  man.' " 

"  It  does,  for  I  just  left  her,  and  she's  a  wicked  flaunt 
of  womanly  happiness.  I  tell  you,  she  has  been  playing 


This  Clay-and-Paint  Age  147 

with  angels,  all  daintily  plumped  out,  eyes  shining,  hands 
soft  and  white,  her  neck  all  round  and  new,  lips  red, 
and  her  voice  low  and  ecstatic  with  the  miracle  of  it  all. 
And  '  Oh,  Vina,'  she  whispered,  '  I  almost  die  to  think 
I  might  have  refused  him !  You  helped  me  not  to.  He 
loves  me,  and  oh,  he's  so  wonderful!'  ...  I  kissed 
her  in  an  awed  way — and  asked  about  him.  .  .  . 
'  Oh,  he's  just  a  nurseryman — trees,  you  know,  but  he 
lo we're  so  happy!'  .  .  .  Oh,  Beth,"  Vina  fin 
ished  in  a  lowered  voice,  "  something  eternal,  something 
immortal  happens,  when  a  man  brings  love  to  a  thirsting 
woman !" 

"  Not  tea,  but  strong  tea,"  Beth  observed.  "  Perhaps 
you  think  that's  a  pretty  story — and  perhaps  it  is,"  she 
added  indefinitely. 

Vina  seemed  hardly  to  hear.  Many  matters  were 
revolving  in  her  tired  mind,  and  as  soon  as  she  caught 
a  loose  end,  she  allowed  words  to  come,  for  there  was 
some  relief  in  thinking  aloud. 

"  Hasn't  the  world  done  for  us  perfectly,  Beth  ?  "  she 
demanded  finally.  "  Everything  is  arranged  for  men, 
to  suit  men — it's  a  man's  world — and  we're  foreigners. 
We're  forced  to  stand  around  and  mind,  before  we  under 
stand.  If  we  speak  our  own  language,  we're  suspected 
of  sedition.  And  then  we  don't  stand  together.  We're 
continually  looking  for  some  kind  male  native,  and  only 
now  and  then  one  of  us  is  lucky.  .  .  .  Hideous 
and  false  old  shames  are  inflicted  upon  us.  We  are 
hungry  for  many  things,  but  appear  shameless,  if  we  say 
so.  ...  Beth,  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  we 
come — I  mean  fair  and  normal  women — we  come  from 
a  country  where  there  are  lots  of  little  children ?  " 

"  The  kingdom  of  heaven,  you  mean,  Vina  ?  " 

"  Possibly  that's  it.  And  when  we  get  here  we  miss 
them — want  them  terribly.  It's  all  through  us — like  an 
abstraction.  We  know  the  way  better  than  the  natives 
here,  but  they  have  laws  which  make  us  dependent  upon 


148  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

them  for  the  way.  ...  It  has  not  lifted  to  an  ab 
straction  with  our  teachers,  Beth.  A  crude  concrete  thing 
to  them,  a  matter  of  rules  broken  or  not.  We  must  sub 
mit,  or  remain  lonely,  reviled  foreigners.  .  .  .  Some 
times  we  discover  a  native  who  could  bring  us  back  our 
own,  but  he's  probably  teaching  the  nearest.  .  .  ." 

"  We've  got  to  stand  together,  we  foreigners,"  Beth 
said  laughingly.  "  All  our  different  castes  must  stand 
together  first — and  keep  the  natives  waiting — until  in 
their  very  eagerness,  they  suddenly  perceive  that  we  know 
best " 

"  It's  not  for  us — that  happy  time,"  Vina  added  hope 
lessly.  "  We  are  the  sit-tight,  hold-fast  pilgrims.  We 
belong  to  the  clay-and-paint  age " 

"  It's  something  to  see  that " 

"  Oh,  how  truly  he  sees  it !  " 

"  Your  Sailor-man,  does  he  see  that,  too  ?  " 

"  Has  he  been  seeing  other  things — in  your  studio?" 
Vina  asked  hastily. 

"  Oh,  no,  he  hasn't  been  here,  but  he  has  been  telling 
David  Cairns  things  about  writing.  .  .  .  David  has 
really  been  born  again." 

"  Do  you  know,  Beth,"  Vina  declared  with  intensity, 
"  he  has  been  such  an  inspiration  to  me,  that  I'm  afraid 
my  '  Stations  '  will  look  like  a  repaired  wall,  half  new  and 
half  old  plaster." 

"  My  work  will  stand  an  inspiration,  too." 

«  Beth " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  know  what  I  think  of  your  work,  but  I  believe 
the  Sailor-man  could  give  you  that  inspiration " 

"  Perhaps  I  can  get  it  through  you  and  David  Cairns," 
remarked  Beth,  who  was  beginning  to  see,  and  with  no 
little  amazement,  that  to  Vina  the  inspiration  was  spirit 
ual,  impersonal.  This  made  Bedient's  influence  all  the 
more  exciting. 

"  Oh,  he'll  come  to  you,  right  enough.  I  supposed 
he  had.  .  .  .  You  know  I  was  making  my  James 


This  Clay-and-Paint  Age  149 

and  Matthews,  my  Peters  and  Jews  and  Romans  quite 
contentedly  in  that  bleak  way  it  has  been  done  a  thousand 
times.  But  he  made  me  see  them!  And  the  slopes  of 
Calvary,  and  Gethsemane  hunched  in  the  darkness,  and 
the  Christ  kneeling  in  a  faint  starry  light;  he  made  me 
see  Him  kneeling  there,  His  Spirit,  like  a  great  mother's 
loving  heart,  standing  between  an  angry  Father  and  the 
world,  a  wilful  child " 

"Yes,"  came  softly  from  Beth. 

"  And  it's  almost  too  much  for  me  now — the  Passion, 
the  Agony,  the  Crime  and  the  Night — too  much  for  me 
and  clay.  It  would  be,  if  it  were  not  for  the  glowing 
Marys.  They're  for  us,  Beth " 

"  That's  sweet  of  you,  Vina.  ...  It  won't  be  too 
much.  You're  in  the  reaction  now.  After  that  passes 
you  will  do  the  '  Stations '  as  they  have  never  been  done. 
And  God's  poor  people  will  pass  before  your  work  for 
years  and  years  to  come ;  and  something,  as  much  as  they 
can  bear  of  the  thrilling  anguish  of  this  new  light  of 
yours,  will  come  to  them,  as  they  pray  before  the  Eternal 
Tragedy." 

"  But  that  isn't  all,  Beth !  .  .  .  There's  another ; 
a  terrible  side.  I  sort  of  had  myself  in  hand  until  he 
came,  sort  of  felt  myself  two  thousand  years  old,  back 
among  them.  But  he  has  made  me  a  pitiful  modern 
again,  a  woman  who  has  tried  and  refuses  to  try  longer, 
to  be  happy  with  clay  dolls.  And  Mary  McCullom " 

"  Is  submerged  in  tea — past  resuscitation.  .  .  . 
That  modern  madness  will  pass,  too,  dear.  'Member  how 
those  Italian  giants  used  to  have  periods  of  madness 
while  they  decorated  the  everlasting  cathedrals?  No 
modern  man  could  come  into  your  studio  and  break  your 
work  for  long,  Vina.  You  know  we  promised  each  other 
that  none  could."  Beth  shivered  at  her  memory.  Vina 
had  made  her  forget  for  a  moment. 

"  But  we  said  in  our  haste  then,  that  all  men  were 
just  natives " 

"  Many  wise  women  say  so  at  their  leisure " 


150  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  But  Mary  McCullom " 

"  Taboo " 

"  Well,  then,  he  made  me  see  there  were  real  men 
in  the  world,"  Vina  declared  with  slow  defiance. 

"  Oh." 

"  You're  sure  to  misunderstand.  Please  listen  care 
fully.  He  is  as  far  to  me — from  being  that  kind  of  a  real 
man — as  a  mere  native.  Do  you  understand?  .  .  . 
I  could  worship  through  him,  as  through  a  pure 
priest " 

"  Vina,  you're  a  passionate  idealist !  " 

"  You  don't  know  him.  I  think  he  is  beyond  sex — 
or  going  beyond.  Perhaps  he  doesn't  know  it.  ... 
Oh,  we've  been  hurt  a  little,  by  boys  who  failed  to  grow 
into  men,  and  so  we  took  to  our  breasts  painted  and 
molded  images,  saying  there  are  no  real  men.  And 
here  in  our  midst  comes  more  than  we  ask  or  dream — a 
Prophet  in  the  making.  That's  very  clear  to  me,  and 
you'll  see  it!  .  .  .  The  result — a  clearer  vision  into 
clay  and  its  possibilities,  and  an  expanded  conception  of 
my  subjects — that's  one  point  and  a  wonderful  one.  I'm 
grateful,  but  there's  another.  .  .  .  Oh,  Beth,  I'm  sick 
unto  nausea  with  repression.  Why,  should  I  deny  it ;  I 
want  a  real  lover  among  men,  and  I  want  live  dolls !  " 

A  trenchant  moment  to  Beth  Truba.  No  one,  so  well 
as  she,  could  perceive  the  tragedy  o,f  this  gifted  woman, 
whom  the  right  man  had  missed  in  the  crush  of  the 
world's  women.  A  real  artist,  but  a  greater  woman. 
.  .  .  More  than  this  was  revealed  to  Beth.  Her  own 
Shadowy  Sister  was  speaking  to  her  with  Vina  Nettle- 
ton's  tongue,  as  Beth  Truba  could  never  speak  of 
another.  .  .  . 

The  Grey  One,  too,  had  her  tragedy ;  and  Kate  Wilkes 
had  hers  long  ago,  a  strong  woman,  whose  cup  of  bitter 
ness  had  overflowed  in  her  veins ;  who  had  come  so  to 
despise  men,  as  to  profess  disliking  children.  Indeed, 
that  moment,  Beth  Truba  seemed  to  hear  the  whispered 


This  Clay-and-Paint  Age  151 

affirmations  of  tragedy  from  evolved  women  everywhere. 
.  .  .  And  whither  was  tending  the  race,  if  only  the 
Wordlings  of  the  world  were  to  be  satisfied — if  Wordlings 
were  all  that  men  cared  for  ?  What  was  to  become  of  the 
race,  if  the  few  women  who  loved  art,  and  through  art 
learned  really  to  love  their  kind,  were  forever  to  be 
denied  ?  And  here  was  Vina  Nettleton  with  the  spiritual 
power  to  concentrate  her  dream  into  an  avatar  (if  into 
the  midst  of  her  solitary  labors,  a  great  man's  love  should 
suddenly  come)  !  .  .  .  Did  the  Destiny  Master  fall 
asleep  for  a  century  at  a  time,  that  such  a  genius  for 
motherhood  should  be  denied,  while  the  earth  was  being 
replenished  with  children  of  chance,  branded  with  com 
monness  and  forever  afraid  ? 

Beth  Truba  shook  herself  from  this  crippling  rush  of 
thoughts,  and  started  to  her  feet. 

"  Vina,  you've  been  drinking  deep  of  power.  You're 
a  giantess  reeking  with  mad  contagions.  Also,  you're  a 
heretic.  Allow  me  to  remind  you  that  we  are  spinsters; 
born  and  enforced,  and  decently-to-be-buried  spinsters. 
It  isn't  the  Sailor-man,  but  the  spring  of  the  year,  that 
makes  us  a  bit  feverish.  We  should  go  to  the  catacombs 
for  this  season,  when  this  devil's  rousing  is  in  the  air. 
.  -.  .  If  you  have  anything  further  to  say,  purely  in 
regard  to  artistic  inspirations,  you  may  go  on " 

Vina  sat  rigidly  before  her,  wan  and  white-lipped  as 
if  her  emotions  were  burned  out.  Presently  she  began 
to  talk  again  in  her  trailing  pensive  way : 

"  I  had  been  working  deep  and  doggedly  for  days, 
hardly  noticing  who  came  in  or  out.  When  the  Grey 
One  entered  with  him,  I  felt  myself  bobbing,  whirling  up 
into  light  surface  water.  I  hardly  spoke  the  first  half 
hour.  I  remembered  the  night  before,  when  he  told  that 
fine  story  straight  into  your  eyes.  I  thought  him  won 
derful  then,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  you  were  in  for  it 
But  it  was  different  when  he  came  into  my  shop — some 
thing  intimate  and  important.  His  eyes  roved  from  one 


152  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

'  Station  '  to  another,  while  the  Grey  One  exploited  me  in 
her  absurd,  selfless  fashion.  She's  a  third  in  our  trouble, 
Beth. 

"  Presently  he  asked  me  how  I  knew  the  Christ  had 
such  wonderful  hands ;  then  he  talked  of  the  Forerunner 
and  Saint  Paul,  who  could  have  done  so  much,  had  they 
been  there  during  the  Passion,  and  of  the  women  who 
were  there.  It  was  strange  to  have  him  come  into  the 
studio — to  me — with  all  these  pictures  developed  through 
silent  years.  It  seems  to  me  something  tremendous  must 
come  of  it.  ...  Someone  knocked,  and  frenziedly  I 
ordered  the  intruder  away,  without  opening  the  door." 

And  now  Vina  repeated  the  belief  of  Bedient  that 
impressed  her  so  deeply :  that  the  Holy  Spirit  is  the  source 
of  the  divine  principle  in  woman ;  that  the  Marys  of  this 
world  are  the  symbols  of  that  Mystic  Motherhood — the 
third  of  the  Trinity — which  will  bring  the  races  of  the 
world  to  God,  as  a  woman  brings  children  to  her  husband. 

"  Everything  he  said  glowed  with  this  message,"  she 
went  on.  "  His  every  thought  brought  out  that  women 
are  the  holders  of  the  spiritual  loaf ;  that  prophets  are  the 
sons  of  strength  of  great  spiritual  mothers;  that  artists 
and  poets  are  prophets  in  the  making,  and  that  unto  the 
purest  and  greatest  of  the  prophets  must  come  at  last 
Godhood — the  Three  in  One ;  and  of  this  Jesus  is  the 
Exemplar ;  His  life  and  death  and  rising,  His  whole  Mis 
sion,  should  make  us  see  with  human  eyes,  the  Way  of 
Truth." 

"  I  see,  dear  girl,"  Beth  said  softly,  "  why  you  could 
not  open  the  door  to  anyone.  .  .  .  Then  the  Mission 
of  Jesus  was  vicarious?  I  had  about  given  up  hope  of 
comprehending  that." 

"  Yes.  He  lived  and  moved  and  bled  and  died  and 
rose  before  the  eyes  of  common  men ! "  Vina  exclaimed. 
"  One  has  to  bleed  for  such  eyes !  Without  the  living 
sacrifice,  only  the  rare  souls  here  and  there,  with  the 
highest  prophetic  vision,  could  have  risen  clearly  to 


This  Clay-and-Paint  Age  153 

understand  these  things.  .  .  .  Thus  the  growth  of 
spirituality  was  quickened  among  the  lowly  multitudes. 
The  coming  of  the  Christ  is  the  loveliest  manifestation  of 
the  divine  feminine  principle  within  Him — the  Holy 
Spirit.  Did  he  not  become  a  Spiritual  Mother  of  the 
world?  Was  not  Godhood  the  next  step  for  such  a 
finished  Spirit  ?  His  awful  agony  was  that  these  tremen 
dous  mysteries  of  His  illumination  were  enacted  in  the 
hideous  low  pressures  of  human  understanding.  That 
he  could  endure  this  for  the  world's  eye,  is  his  greatness, 
his  Godhood !  " 

"  And  Mr.  Bedient  comes  out  of  India  with  this 
Christian  conception?" 

"  Beth,"  Vina  said  solemnly,  "  I  believe  there  is  mean 
ing  in  that,  too.  The  beauty  and  simplicity  of  that  Sacri 
fice  has  been  husked  in  dogmas  for  centuries,  and  we  here 
have  not  torn  them  all  away.  He  had  just  the  Book  and 
the  Silence,  and  his  own  rare  mind ! " 

"  But,  Vina,  how  could  these  things  of  pure  religious 
fervor  and  beauty  bring  about  that  other  rebellion  of 
yours — the  Mary  McCullom  one  ?  " 

"Oh,  in  a  hundred  ways;  I'm  all  tired  out  now,  but 
they'll  come  back.  In  a  hundred  ways,  Beth,  he  spoke 
of  women — with  that  same  fervor  and  beauty.  Just  as 
he  cleared  and  made  exalted  the  Mystic  Motherhood  of 
the  Christ,  he  pointed  out  how  it  works  among  us.  Why, 
he  says  that  there  is  nothing  worth  reading  nor  regarding 
nor  listening  to  in  the  world  of  art,  that  has  not  that  vis- 
ioning  feminine  quality.  The  artist  must  be  evolving 
through  spirit,  before  his  book  or  painting  or  symphony 
begins  to  live.  All  the  rest  of  art  is  a  mere  squabbling 
over  the  letter  of  past  prophecies,  as  the  Jews  did  with 
the  living  Christ  in  their  streets!  .  .  .  What  a  mother 
he  must  have  had!  I  seemed  to  see  her — to  sense 
her — beside  him.  It  was  as  if  she  looked  into  my  heart 
and  the  Grey  One's  heart,  and  with  her  hand  on  her  big 


154  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

boy's  head,  said  to  us,  smiling  and  happily :  '  This  is  my 
art — and  he  lives !  You  have  but  to  look  into  your  own 
hearts,  you  listening  women,  to  know  that  he  lives ! ' 
.  .  .  Oh,  Beth,  her  work  does  live  to  bless  her !  Can't 
you  see  how  dead-cold  the  clay  felt  to  my  fingers  after 
that?" 

"  Did  he  speak  of  his  mother?  " 

"  No." 

Beth  arose.  "  Vina,"  she  said,  "  we  are  absolutely 
detached  from  the  centres  of  sanity.  We  shall  now  walk 
Broadway,  not  the  Avenue,  but  Broadway,  to  get  back  to 
markets  and  mere  men.  You're  too  powerful  for  this 
poor  little  room " 

"  You  always  talk  and  laugh,  Beth,  but  you're  con 
fronted  and  you  know  it.  Confronted — that's  the  thing! 
Woman  or  artist — there's  no  word  so  naked  and  empty 
to  me  as  just  artist " 

"  Only  spinster"  Beth  suggested,  shivering. 

Vina  stretched  out  her  frail  arms  wearily,  and  her 
eyes  suddenly  fastened  upon  a  fresh  heather-plant  on  the 
corner  of  the  writing-table.  "  Oh,  please,  drop  a  veil  over 
that  little  bush,"  she  pleaded.  "  It's  arrayed  like  a 
bride " 

"A  bridal  veil,  dear?" 

"  .No,  no,  a  shawl,  a  rug !  " 

Beth  returned  alone  at  dusk.  In  some  ways  the 
afternoon  was  memorable.  It  was  hard  for  her  to  keep 
her  doubts  about  Bedient.  Most  of  all  that  impressed 
her  was  Vina's  sense  of  the  mother's  nearness  to  the 
man.  She  had  thought  of  that  at  once,  as  she  listened 
to  his  story.  And  he  had  not  told  Vina  nor  the  Grey  One 
about  his  mother.  .  .  .  She  sat  down  at  her  table  and 
drew  forth  the  opened  but  unread  letter  from  Albany. 

"  Woman  or  artist,"  she  whispered  bitterly,  "  as  if 
one  could  not  be  both!  .  .  .  It  is  only  because  a 
woman-and-artist  requires  a  man  who  can  love  artisti- 


This  Clay-and-Paint  Age  155 

cally.  Few  men  can  do  that — and  anything  else  beside. 
.  .  .  Can  you,  Sailor-man?  .  .  .  Not  if  you  ex 
plain  to  me  why  I  found  you  at  Wordling's.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  I  can  forgive  you,  after  all  the  lovely  things 
you've  said.  Anyway  I  shall  tell  no  one.  ..." 

"  Dear  Miss  Truba :  I  want  to  have  a  portrait  painted 
of  myself.  I'm  convinced  that  you  can  do  it  very  well. 
Will  you  undertake  the  work?  I  shall  be  back  in  New 
York  shortly  after  this  letter  reaches  you  Monday,  and 
will  wait  at  the  Club  until  I  hear  from  you.  Yours, 
Andrew  Bedient." 

There  was  an  instant  in  which  she  was  conscious  of 
something  militant,  something  of  the  quiet  power  of  the 
man  who  does  not  go  home  empty-handed.  In  his  leav 
ing  the  city  Saturday,  she  perceived  one  who  wishes  to 
avoid  the  appearance  of  evil,  and  is  content  to  leave  his 
movements  unexplained,  trusting  to  another's  perception. 

"  Vina  is  right,"  she  said  slowly.  "  '  Confronted ' 
is  the  word." 


FIFTEENTH   CHAPTER 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  MOTHER 

ANDREW  BEDIENT  had  entered  the  company  of  lovers. 
.  .  .  There  have  been  great  lovers  who  were  not 
otherwise  great  men,  but  never  a  great  man  who  was 
not  a  great  lover.  .  .  .  On  the  night  he  had  first  seen 
Beth  Truba  across  the  table,  deep  within  there  had  been 
a  swift  ignition  of  altar-flames  that  would  never  cease 
to  burn.  Often  in  his  reading  and  thinking,  in 
pictures  he  had  seen,  and  in  his  limited  adventures  into 
music;  wherever,  in  fact,  man  had  done  well  in  the  arts, 
the  vision  of  some  great  woman  was  behind  the  work  for 
his  eyes ;  famous  and  lovely  women  long-dead,  whose 
kisses  are  imperishable  in  tone  or  pigment  or  tale ;  women 
who  called  to  themselves  for  a  little  space  the  big-souled 
men  of  their  time,  and  sent  them  away  illustrious.  And 
these  men  forever  afterward  brought  their  art  to  witness 
that  such  women  are  the  way  to  the  Way  of  Life. 

Bedient  had  rejoiced  to  discover  the  two  women  in 
every  great  man's  life:  the  woman  who  visioned  his 
greatness  in  the  mothering;  and  the  woman  who  saw  it 
potentially  afterward — and  ignited  it.  How  often  the 
latter  loosed  a  landslide  of  love  at  the  ignition,  and  how 
seldom  she  stepped  aside  to  let  it  pass ! 

All  this  thinking  for  years  upon  the  beauty  and  fine 
ness  of  women  was  focussed  now.  .  .  .  The  depth  of 
his  humility,  and  the  vastness  of  his  appreciation  were 
the  essential  beginnings  of  the  love  of  this  hour,  just  as 
they  would  be,  if  he  were  ready  to  perform  some  great 
creative  expression  in  art.  The  boyhood  of  a  genius  is 
a  wild  turning  from  one  passionate  adoration  to  another 
among  the  masters  of  his  art ;  often  his  gift  of  apprecia 
tion  is  a  generation  ahead  of  his  capacity  to  produce. 
And  love  is  the  genius  of  mothering,  the  greatest  of  all 

156 


The  Story  of  the  Mother  157 

the  arts.  The  love  that  a  man  inspires  in  a  woman's 
heart  is  her  expression  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  According  to 
the  degree  and  beauty  of  that  love,  does  the  woman's 
child  lift  its  head  above  the  brute;  according  to  the 
greater  or  lesser  expression  of  this  Mystic  Motherhood  in 
the  world,  at  a  certain  hour,  must  be  determined  the 
morality  of  the  race. 

A  fortnight  in  New  York  had  terrorized  Bedient.  He 
perceived  that  men  had  not  humility,  nor  passionate 
appreciation  for  anything;  that  they  were  dazed  with 
their  own  or  other  men's  accumulations;  that  they  de 
stroyed  every  dream  of  woman,  drove  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  from  her  heart,  with  their  comings  and  their 
goings  and  their  commonness.  He  came  to  believe  that 
this  was  an  age  of  impossible  men,  impossible  lovers, 
artists,  and  critics,  because  they  had  not  the  delicacy  and 
wisdom  to  accept  the  finer  forces,  which  women  bring 
into  the  world  for  men. 

Indeed,  he  saw  that  this  was  woman's  gray  hour  of 
restless  hoping,  pitiful  dreaming  and  untellable  pain; 
that  out  of  these  must  come  the  new  generation.  Then 
it  appeared  to  him  with  splendid  cheer,  that  woman  had 
not  fallen  to  these  modern  miseries,  but  risen  to  them, 
from  a  millenium  of  serfdom,  untimely  outraging,  hide 
ous  momentary  loving,  brute  mastery,  ownership  and 
drudgery.  .  .  .  These  of  to-day  were  finer  suffer 
ings  ;  this  an  age  of  transition  in  which  she  was  passing 
through  valleys  of  terrible  shadow,  but  having  preserved 
her  natural  greatness  through  the  milleniums,  she  could 
not  fail  now  with  her  poor  gleanings  of  real  love  to  give 
the  world  a  generation  of  finer-grained  men. 

Women,  then,  he  thought,  have  a  natural  greatness 
which  man  cannot  destroy.  If  men  were  able  to  destroy 
it,  the  sources  of  the  saving  principle  of  the  race  would 
be  shut  off.  But  marvellously  can  man  inspire  this  nat 
ural  greatness,  make  it  immense  and  world-swaying  by 
bringing  out  the  best  of  women,  and  yet  how  few  have 


158  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

this  chivalry!  Here  was  the  anguish,  the  failure.  With 
his  mind  filled  with  these  illimitable  possibilities,  Bedient 
was  overcome  with  his  insight  of  New  York,  the  awful- 
ness  of  ignorance  and  cruelty  in  the  ordinary  relations 
of  man  with  woman. 

Bedient  firmly  believed  that  if  women  were  granted 
(a  heavenly  dispensation,  it  would  have  to  be)  a  decade 
of  happiness  beginning  now,  a  decade  of  lovers  of  their 
own  choosing,  men  of  delicacy  and  wisdom,  that  thirty 
years  from  now  there  would  be  that  poise  and  sweetness 
in  the  world  that  dreamers  descry  in  far  future  ages. 
And  here  and  there  would  be  a  beyond-man,  indeed ; 
and  here  and  there  cosmic,  instead  of  mere  self-conscious 
ness. 

He  believed  that  the  greatest  miracle  for  the  unsealed 
eye  in  this  day,  was  that  woman  had  emerged  from  a 
degraded  past  with  this  powerful  present  vitality;  the 
capacity  to  hope  and  dream  and  suffer  and  be  aroused ; 
that  she  had  the  fervor  and  power  of  visioning-  left  to  be 
aroused !  Surely  this  was  the  Third  of  the  Trinity  sus 
taining  her.  .  .  .  Bedient  began  to  study  with  sym 
pathy  and  regard  those  groups  of  women,  willing  to  sacri 
fice  the  best  of  their  natures  and  descend  into  man's 
spheres  of  action,  there  to  wring  from  man  on  his  own 
ground  the  privileges  so  doggedly  withheld.  He  saw  that 
their  sacrifice  was  heroic ;  that  their  cause  was  "  in  the 
air";  that  this  was  but  one  startling  manifestation  of  a 
great  feminist  seething  over  the  world ;  and  yet  every 
brightness  of  evolution  depended,  as  he  saw  it,  upon 
woman  being1  herself,  retaining  first  of  all  those  stores  of 
beauty  and  spirit  which  are  designed  to  be  her  gifts  to 
manhood  and  the  race.  In  the  eyes  of  the  future,  he  be 
lieved,  these  women  would  stand  as  the  inspired  pioneers 
of  a  rending  transition  period. 

The  note  that  came  from  Beth  Truba,  saying1  that  she 
would  see  him  about  the  portrait  at  two  on  Tuesday, 
Bedient  regarded  as  one  of  the  happiest  things  that  ever 


The  Story  of  the  Mother  159 

befell.  It  was  delivered  at  the  Club  by  messenger  that 
Monday  night.  Very  well  he  knew,  that  she  gracefully 
might  have  declined,  and  would  have,  had  she  not  been 
able  to  look  above  a  certain  misleading  event. 

There  were  moments  in  which  he  seemed  always  to 
have  known  Beth  Truba.  Had  he  come  back  after  long 
world-straying? 

There  was  a  painting  of  Bernhardt  in  an  upper  gallery 
at  the  Club,  that  he  had  regarded  with  no  little  emotion 
during  past  days.  The  face  of  the  greatest  actress,  so 
intensely  feminine,  in  strangely  effective  profile  between 
a  white  feathery  collar  and  a  white  fur  hat,  had  made 
him  think  of  Beth  Truba  in  a  score  of  subtle  ways.  They 
told  him  that  the  painting  had  been  done  by  a  young 
Italian,  who  had  shown  the  good  taste  to  worship  the 
creator  of  La  Samaritaine.  .  .  .  Bedient  wished  he 
could  paint  the  russet-gold  hair  and  the  lustrous  pallor  of 
ivory  which  shone  from  Beth's  skin,  and  put  upon  the 
canvas  at  the  last,  what  had  been  a  revelation  to  him, 
and  which  had  carried  credentials  to  the  Bedient  throne, 
to  the  very  crown-cabinet  of  his  empire,  the  fine  and 
enduring  spirit  in  her  brilliant  eyes. 

They  met  in  the  studio  on  the  business  basis.  It  was 
a  gray  day,  one  of  those  soft,  misty,  growing  days.  She 
was  a  trifle  taller  than  he  had  thought.  Something  of 
the  world-habit  was  about  her,  or  world-wear,  a  profes 
sionalism  that  work  had  taught  her,  and  a  bit  of  humor 
now  and  then.  The  studio  was  filled  with  pictures,  many 
studies  of  her  own,  bits  of  Paris  and  Florence,  many 
flowers  and  heads.  There  was  one  door  which  opened 
into  a  little  white  room.  The  door  was  only  partly  open, 
and  it  was  shut  altogether  presently.  Bedient  had  only 
looked  within  it  once,  but  reverently.  Besides,  there  was 
a  screen  which  covered  an  arcanum,  from  which  tea  and 
cakes  and  sandwiches  came  on  occasion.  An  upright 
piano,  some  shelves  of  books,  an  old-fashioned  mantle 
and  fire-place ;  and  the  rest — pictures  and  yellow-brown 


160  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

hangings  and  lounges.  He  wondered  if  anyone  ever  saw 
Beth's  pictures  so  deeply  as  he.  ...  She  was  in  her 
blouse.  The  gray  light  subdued  the  richness  of  her  hair, 
but  made  her  pallor  more  luminous.  She  was  very  swift 
and  still  in  her  own  house. 

A  chair  was  placed  for  him,  and  Beth  went  back  to 
her  stool  under  the  light.  Occasionally  she  asked  him 
to  look  at  certain  pictures  in  her  room,  studying  him  as 
he  turned.  She  told  him  of  adorable  springtimes  in 
Florence;  how  once  she  had  asked  a  beautiful  Italian 
peasant  boy  to  help  her  with  an  easel,  and  some  other 
matters,  up  a  long  flight  of  marble  steps,  and  he  had 
answered,  with  drowsy  gentleness,  "  Please  ask  another 
boy,  Signorina.  I  have  dined  to-day."  .  .  .  And 
Bedient  watched,  when  her  head  was  bowed  over  the 
board  upon  her  knee.  Her  hair,  so  wonderful  now  in  the 
shadows,  made  amazing  promises  for  sunlit  days.  Un 
common  energy  was  in  his  heart,  and  a  buoyant  activity 
of  mind  that  formed,  one  after  another,  ideals  for  her 
happiness. 

"  Yesterday  at  this  time,"  she  said  finally,  "  Vina 
iNettleton  was  here.  She  spoke  of  your  great  help  in 
her  work " 

"  Her  studio  was  thrilling  to  me.  .  .  .  Altogether, 
getting  back  to  New  York  has  been  my  greatest  experi 
ence." 

"You  have  been  away  very  long?" 

"  So  long  that  I  don't  remember  leaving,  nor  any 
thing  about  it,  except  the  boats  and  whistles,  the  elevated 
railways  and  the  Park,  and  certain  strains  of  music. 
I  remember  seeing  the  animals,  and  the  hall  of  that 
house " 

"Where  the  light  frightened  you?" 

"  Yes.  And  I  remember  the  bees.  ...  I  have 
ridden  through  and  about  the  Park  several  times,  but  I 
can't  seem  to  get  anything  back.  I  felt  like  asking  ques 
tions,  as  I  did  long  ago,  of  my  mother." 


The  Story  of  the  Mother  161 

Beth  wanted  to  tell  him  that  she  would  ride  with  him 
sometime  and  answer  questions,  but  he  seemed  very  near 
the  deep  places,  and  she  dared  not  urge  nor  interrupt. 

"  It  was  very  clear  to  me  then,  that  we  needed  each 
other,"  he  added.  "  A  child  knows  that.  She  must  have 
answered  all  the  questions  in  the  world,  for  I  was  always 
satisfied.  I  wonder  that  she  had  time  to  think  about  her 
own  things.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  remarkable,  and  I  don't 
remember  anything  she  said  ?  " 

Bedient  seemed  to  be  thinking  aloud,  as  if  this  were 
the  right  place  to  talk  of  these  things.  They  had  been 
in  the  foreground  of  his  mind  continually,  but  never 
uttered  before. 

"  It  was  always  above  words — our  relation,"  he  went 
on  presently.  "  Though  we  must  have  talked  and  talked 
— it  is  not  the  words  I  remember — but  realizations  of 
truth  which  came  to  me  afterward,  from  them.  What  a 
place  for  a  little  boy's  hand  to  be !  .  .  . 

"  I  remember  the  long  voyage,  and  she  was  always 
near.  There  were  many  strange  things — far  too  strange 
to  remember;  and  then,  the  sick  room.  She  was  a  long 
time  there.  I  could  not  be  with  her  as  much  as  I  wanted. 
It  was  very  miserable  all  around,  though  it  seems  the 
people  were  not  unkind.  They  must  have  been  very 
poor.  And  then,  one  night  I  knew  that  my  mother  was 
going  to  die.  I  could  not  move,  when  this  came  to  me. 
I  tried  not  to  breathe,  tried  to  die  too ;  and  some  one  came 
in  and  shook  me,  and  it  was  all  red  about  my  eyes. 

"  They  took  me  to  her,  but  I  couldn't  tell  what  I  knew, 
though  she  saw  it.  And  this  I  remember,  though  it  was 
in  the  dark.  The  others  were  sent  away,  and  she  made  a 
place  for  me  on  her  arm,  and  she  laughed,  and  whispered 
and  whispered.  Why,  she  made  me  over  that  night  on 
her  arm! 

"  She  must  have  whispered  it  a  thousand  times — so 
it  left  a  lasting  impression.  Though  I  could  not  always 
see  her,  she  would  always  be  near!  That  remains  from 
11 


162  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

the  night,  though  none  of  the  words  ever  came  back. 
I  never  lost  that,  and  it  was  true.  .  .  .  Do  you  see 
how  great  she  was  to  laugh  that  night?  .  .  .  And 
how  she  had  to  struggle  to  leave  that  message  on  such  a 
little  boy's  mind  ?  .  .  .  More  wonderful  and  wonder 
ful  it  becomes,  as  I  grow  older.  She  was  dying,  and  we 
had  been  such  dependent  lovers.  She  was  not  leaving 
me,  as  it  had  been  with  us,  nor  in  any  way  as  she 
liked.  .  .  . 

"  She  must  have  grappled  with  all  the  forces  that 
drive  the  world  that  night!  .  .  .  First,  I  was  happy 
on  her  arm — and  then,  through  the  long  hours,  and 
mysteriously,  she  implanted  her  message.  .  .  .  And 
see  what  came  of  it — see  her  strength !  The  actual  part 
ing  was  not  so  terrible — she  had  builded  a  fortress 
around  me  against  that — not  so  terrible  as  the  hours 
before,  when  I  tried  not  to  breathe." 

Beth  did  not  raise  her  eyes  as  he  paused.  She  could 
not  speak.  The  little  boy  had  come  home  to  her  mind — 
like  a  wraith-child  of  her  own.  She  was  shaken  with  a 
passion  of  pity. 

"  It  seems  it  was  meant  for  me  to  stay  in  that  house, 
but  I  couldn't,"  Bedient  went  on.  "  They  probably  both 
ered  a  great  deal  after  I  stole  away,  and  tried  to  find  me. 
But  they  didn't.  .  .  .  And  I  went  down  where  there 
were  ships.  I  think  the  ships  fascinated  me,  because  we 
had  come  on  one.  I  slipped  aboard,  and  fell  asleep  below. 
The  sailors  found  me  after  we  had  cleared.  They  were 
very  good,  and  called  me  '  Handy.'  ...  I  think  my 
mother  must  have  taught  me  my  letters,  for  when  an 
old  sailor,  with  rings  in  his  ears,  pointed  out  to  me  the 
name  of  the  ship  on  the  jolly-boat,  the  letters  came  back 
to  me.  I  was  soon  reading  the  Bible.  That  was  the  book 
I  cut  my  teeth  on,  as  they  say.  .  .  .  And  one  time, 
as  we  were  leaving  port,  I  thought  I  had  better  have  a 
name.  One  of  the  men  had  asked  me,  you  see,  and  I 
was  only  able  to  say,  '  Handy.'  And  just  then,  we  passed 


The  Story  of  the  Mother  163 

an  old  low  schooner.  She  had  three  masts ;  her  planking 
was  gray  and  weathered,  and  her  seams  gaped.  On  her 
stern,  I  saw  in  faded  sprawly  letters,  that  had  been 
black : 

"ANDREW  BEDIENT 

"  Of — somewhere,  I  couldn't  make  out.  So  I  took 
that  for  my  name.  It  fitted  '  Handy '  and  the  little  boy's 
idea  of  bigness  and  actuality,  because  I  had  seen  it  in 
print.  ...  I  never  saw  the  old  schooner  again.  I 
don't  know  the  port  in  which  she  lay  at  the  time ;  nor  the 
port  where  my  mother  died.  You  see,  I  was  very  little. 
.  .  .  Everyone  was  good  to  me.  And  it  is  true  that 
my  mother  was  near.  .  .  .  There  were  places  and 
times  that  must  have  put  dull  care  into  her  eyes,  but  she 
was  the  true  sentry.  I  only  knew  when  I  was  asleep." 

It  was  beautiful  to  Beth,  the  way  he  spoke.  His  heart 
seemed  to  say,  "  God  love  her ! "  with  every  sentence. 

Her  lips  breathed  the  words,  her  eyes  had  long  ques 
tioned  : 

"And  your  father?" 

The  room  suddenly  filled  with  her  fateful  words. 

"  My  father  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  He  was  never  with  my 
mother.  I  did  not  understand  until  long  afterward,  but 
she  meant  me  to  understand — that  she  was  not  married. 
She  impressed  it  upon  my  consciousness  for  me  to  under 
stand — when  I  was  older." 

Beth  could  have  knelt  in  her  humility  that  moment. 

"  Please  forgive  me  for  asking,"  she  faltered. 

"  It  was  right.     I  intended  to  tell  you." 

Some  strange,  sustaining  atmosphere  came  from  him. 
His  words  lifted  her.  Beth  saw  upon  his  brow  and  face 
the  poise  and  fineness  of  a  love-child.  .  .  .  With  all 
the  mother's  giving  there  had  been  no  name  for  him ; 
and  he  had  told  her  with  all  the  ease  and  grace  of  one 
who  knows  in  his  heart — a  mother's  purity  of  soul. 
.  .  .  It  was  hard  for  Beth  to  realize,  with  Bedient 


164  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

sitting  there,  that  the  world  makes  tragic  secrets  of  these 
things  he  had  told  her;  that  lives  of  lesser  men  have 
been  ruined  with  the  fear  of  such  discoveries.  .  .  . 
Nothing  of  so  intense  and  intimate  appeal  had  ever  come 
to  her  studio,  as  the  heroism  of  this  mother,  impressing 
upon  her  tortured  and  desperate  child,  that  though  taken 
from  him,  she  would  be  near  always.  .  .  .  The  sen 
sitive  Vina  had  seemed  to  see  the  mother  near  him,  her 
hand  upon  his  head,  saying  with  a  laugh,  "  This  is  my 
Art — and  he  lives! " 

Beth  spoke  at  last :  "  You  honor  me,  Mr.  Bedient, 
in  telling  me  these  deep  things." 

"  This  seemed  the  place,"  he  said,  leaning  forward. 
"  It's  extraordinary  when  I  recall  I  have  only  been  here 
an  hour  or  so.  It  would  seem  absurd  to  some  women, 
but  the  story  knew  where  it  belonged.  ...  In  fact, 
it  is  hard  for  me  to  remember  that  this  is  our  first  talk 
alone.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  should  know,  that  I've 
never  spoken  of  my  mother  to  anyone  else.  ...  I 
never  could  find  the  port  where  she  died." 

They  learned  that  they  could  be  silent  together. 
.  .  .  Beth  knew  that  she  would  have  extended  con 
ference  with  the  Shadowy  Sister  when  alone.  Big  things 
were  enacting  in  the  depths.  There  was  another  thing 
that  Vina  had  said  regarding  the  appeal  of  Bedient  per 
sonally  to  her,  which  required  much  understanding. 
.  .  .  Beth  had  found  herself  thinking  (in  Bedient's 
presence)  that  she  might  have  been  hasty  and  imperious 
in  sending  the  Other  away.  She  had  been  rather  proud 
of  her  iron  courage  up  to  this  hour.  Of  course,  it  was 
ridiculous  that  Bedient  should  recall  the  Other,  and  after 
months  suggest  her  unreasonableness ;  yet  these  things 
recurred.  .  .  .  Moreover,  a  moment  after  Bedient's 
entering,  there  had  been  no  embarrassment  between  them. 
Not  only  had  they  dared  be  silent,  but  they  had  not  tried 
each  other  out  tentatively  by  talking  about  people  they 
knew.  Then  he  had  said  it  was  hard  for  him  to  remem- 


The  Story  of  the  Mother  165 

her  this  was  their  first  talk  together  alone.  Beth  realized 
that  here  was  a  subject  who  would  not  bore  her  before 
his  portrait  was  finished. 

"  Does  David  Cairns  know  Miss  Nettleton  very 
well  ?  "  Bedient  asked,  as  he  was  leaving. 

She  smiled  at  the  question,  and  was  about  to  reply 
that  they  had  been  right  good  friends  for  years,  when 
it  occurred  that  he  might  have  a  deeper  meaning. 

Bedient  resumed  while  she  was  thinking : 

"  I  know  that  he  admires  her  work  and  intelligence, 
but  he  never  spoke  to  me  of  any  further  discoveries. 
Perhaps  he  wouldn't.  .  .  .  He's  a  singularly  fine 
chap,  finer  than  I  knew.  ...  I  noticed  a  short  essay 
in  your  stand  that  contains  a  sentence  I  cannot  forget. 
It  was  about  a  rare  man  who  '  stooped  and  picked  up 
a  fair-coined  soul  that  lay  rusting  in  a  pool  of  tears.' " 

"  Browning,"  she  said  excitedly. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Good-by  and  thank  you.  .  .  . 
To-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  left  her  in  the  whirl  of  this  new  conception.  She 
was  taking  dinner  with  David  Cairns  that  night.  David, 
she  felt,  had  arranged  this  for  further  urging  in  the 
matter  of  her  seeing  his  friend.  And  now  she  smiled  at 
the  surprise  in  store  for  him ;  then  for  a  long  time,  until 
the  yellows  and  browns  were  thickly  shadowed  about  her, 
Beth  sat  very  still,  thinking  about  the  Vina  Nettleton 
of  yesterday,  and  the  altered  and  humble  David  Cairns 
of  the  past  fortnight.  ...  In  the  single  saying  of 
Bedient's,  that  he  had  found  Cairns  finer  than  he  knew, 
there  was  a  remarkable,  winsome  quality  for  her  percep 
tion.  Bedient  had  started  the  revolution  which  was  clear 
ing  the  inner  atmospheres  of  his  friend;  and  yet,  he 
refused  any  part. 

David  took  her  for  dinner  to  a  club  far  down-town — 
a  dining-room  on  the  twentieth  floor,  overlooking  the 


166  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

rivers  and  the  bay,  the  shipping  and  the  far  shores 
pointed  off  with  lights.  .  .  .  They  waited  by  a  win 
dow  in  the  main  hall  for  a  moment  while  a  smaller  room 
was  being  arranged.  Forty  or  more  business  men  were 
banqueting  in  a  glare  of  light  and  glass  and  red  roses — 
a  commercial  dinner  with  speeches.  The  talk  had  to  do 
with  earnings,  per  cents,  leakages,  markets  and  such  mat 
ters.  The  lower  lid  of  many  an  eye  was  updrawn  in 
calculation. 

Beth  shivered,  for  she  saw  avarice,  cunning,  bluff, 
campaigning  with  humor  and  natural  forces.  "  The 
starry  night  and  the  majestic  rivers  might  just  as  well 
be  plaster-walls,"  she  whispered.  "  What  terrible  occu 
pations  are  these  to  make  our  brothers  so  dull,  bald  and 
stodgy-looking:  ?  " 

"  It's  their  art,"  said  Cairns.  "  They  start  in  merrily 
enough,  but  it's  a  fight  out  in  the  centre  of  the  current. 
You  see  them  all  of  one  genial  dining-countenance,  yet 
this  day  they  fought  each  other  in  the  streets  below, 
and  to-morrow  again.  .  .  .  It's  not  only  the  sweep 
of  the  current,  but  each  other,  they  have  to  fight.  .  .  . 
Oh,  it's  very  easy  for  an  artist  to  look  and  feel  superior, 
Beth,  but  we  know  very  well  how  much  is  sordid  routine 
in  our  own  decenter  games — and  suppose  we  had  been 
called  to  money-making  instead.  It  would  catch  us 
young,  and  we'd  either  harden  or  fail." 

.  .  .  They  were  taken  to  a  place  of  stillness  and 
the  night- view  was  restoring.  .  .  .  Though  Cairns 
had  just  left  Bedient,  he  had  not  been  told  about  the 
portrait  nor  the  first  sitting.  Beth  wondered  if  Bedient 
foresaw  that  she  would  appreciate  this.  She  was  getting 
so  that  she  could  believe  anything  of  the  Wanderer. 
For  a  long  time  they  talked  about  him.  .  .  .  Cairns 
already  was  emerging  from  the  miseries  of  reaction ;  new 
ways  of  work  had  opened ;  he  was  fired  with  fresh 
growth  and  delights  of  service.  Beth  was  charmed  with 
him.  ...  At  last  she  said : 

"  Nor  has  Mr.  Bedient  missed  those  rare  and  subtle 


The  Story  of  the  Mother  167 

things  which  make  Vina  Nettleton  the  most  important 
woman  of  my  acquaintance." 

The  sentence  was  a  studied  challenge. 

"You  mean  in  her  work?"  he  said,  under  the  first 
spur. 

"  Did  I  say  artist?  I  meant  woman — '  most  important 
woman ' " 

"  That's  what  you  said." 

"Yes,  I  thought  so "  Beth  shaded  the  interior 

light  from  her  eyes  to  regard  the  night  through  the  open 
window.  "  It  was  misty  gray  all  day,  and  yet  it  is  clear 
now  as  a  summer  night." 

"  And  so  Bedient  sees  more  than  a  remarkable  artist 
in  Vina  ?  "  Cairns  mused. 

"  That  much  is  for  the  world  to  see.  .  .  .  Why, 
those  dollar-eating  gentlemen  in  the  big  room  could  see 
that,  if  they  interested  themselves  in  her  kind  of  work. 
But  they  are  not  trained  to  know  real  women.  Their 
work  keeps  them  from  knowing  such  things.  When  they 
marry  a  real  woman,  it's  an  accident,  largely.  A  diadem 
of  paste  would  have  caught  their  eyes  quite  as  quickly. 
Sometimes  I  think  they  prefer  paste  jewels.  .  .  . 
Only  here  and  there  a  man  of  deep  discernment  reads  the 
truth — and  is  held  by  it.  What  a  fortune  is  that  dis 
cernment!  A  woman  may  well  tremble  before  that 
kind  of  vision,  for  it  is  her  own,  empowered  with  a 
man's  understanding " 

"  Why,  Beth,  that's  Bedient's  mind  exactly ! "  Cairns 
exclaimed.  "  A  woman's  vision  of  the  finest  sort,  em 
powered  with  a  man's  understanding " 

"  Of  the  finest  sort,"  Beth  finished  laughingly.  "  By 
the  way,  that's  a  good  definition  of  a  prophet,  isn't  it?  " 

"  It  does  work  out,"  he  said,  thinking  hard. 

Beth  observed  with  interest  at  this  point,  that  Bedient 
had  confined  his  discussion  of  the  visioning  feminine  prin 
ciple  to  Vina.  There  were  several  approaches  to  his 
elevation. 

"  How  glorious  it  is  to  see  things,  David ! "  she  ex- 


168  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

claimed  happily.  "  Even  to  see  things  after  they  are 
pointed  out.  And  you — I'm  really  so  glad  about  you ! 
You're  coming  along  so  finely,  and  putting  away  boyish 
things." 

She  reached  across  the  table  and  dropped  her  hand 
upon  his  sleeve. 

"  It's  so  tonic  and  bracing  to  watch  one's  friend 
burst  into  bloom!  ...  I  needed  the  stimulus,  too. 
You  are  helping  me." 

It  was  Cairns'  turn  to  shade  his  eyes  for  a  clearer 
view  of  the  night. 


SIXTEENTH  CHAPTER 

"THROUGH  DESIRE  FOR  HER" 

DAVID  CAIRNS  left  Beth  at  her  elevator,  and  walked 
down  the  Avenue  toward  Gramercy.  It  was  still  an  hour 
from  midnight.  As  he  had  hoped,  Bedient  was  at  the 
Club.  The  library  was  deserted,  and  they  sat  down  in 
the  big  chairs  by  the  open  window.  The  only  lights  in 
the  large  room  were  those  on  the  reading  table.  The 
quiet  was  actually  interesting  for  down-town  New  York. 

"  I've  been  out  hunting  up  music,"  Bedient  said. 
"  There  is  a  place  called  the  Columbine  where  you  eat 
and  drink ;  and  a  little  Hungarian  violinist  there  with  his 
daughter — surely  they  can't  know  how  great  they  are! 
He  played  the  Kreutzer  Sonata,  the  daughter  accompany 
ing  as  if  it  were  all  in  the  piano,  and  she  just  let  it  out 
for  fun,  and  then  they  played  it  again  for  me " 

Cairns  laughed  at  his  joy.  Bedient  suddenly  leaned 
forward  and  regarded  him  intently  through  the  vague 
light.  "  David,"  he  said,  "  you're  looking  fit  and  happy, 
and  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you."  This  was  a  way  of 
Bedient's  at  unexpected  moments.  ..."  Do  you 
know,  it's  a  marvellous  life  you  live,"  he  went  on,  "  look 
ing  inward  upon  the  great  universe  of  ideas  constantly, 
balancing  thought  against  thought,  seeking  the  best 
vehicle,  and  weighing  the  effects — for  or  against  the 
Ultimate  Good " 

"  It  appears  that  you  had  to  come  up  here — to  show 
me " 

"  It's  good  of  you  to  say  so,  David,  but  you  had  to  be 
Cairns  and  not  New  York !  A  woman  would  have  shown 
you '* 

Cairns  had  met  before,  in  various  ways,  Bedient's 
unwillingness  to  identify  himself  with  results  of  his  own 
bringing  about.  Beth  had  long  realized  his  immaturity, 
yet  she  had  not  spoken.  Cairns  saw  this  now. 

"  A  woman  would  have  shown  me ?  "  he  repeated. 


170  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  That  the  way  to  heaven  is  always  against  the 
crowd,"  Bedient  finished.  .  .  .  "A  few  days  after 
I  came  to  New  York,  you  joined  me  at  the  Club.  You 
said  you  couldn't  work ;  that  you  found  your  mind  steal 
ing  away  from  the  pages  before  you.  I  knew  you  were 
getting  closer  to  real  work  then.  David,  when  you  find 
yourself  stealing  mentally  away  to  follow  some  pale 
vision  or  shade  of  remembrance,  don't  jerk  up,  thinking 
you  must  get  back  to  work.  Why,  you're  nearer  real  work 
in  following  the  phantoms  than  mere  gray  matter  ever 
will  unfold  for  you.  Creating  is  a  process  of  the  depths ; 
the  brain  is  but  the  surface  of  the  instrument  that  pro 
duces.  How  wearisome  music  would  be,  if  we  knew  only 
the  major  key !  How  terrible  would  be  sunlight,  if  there 
were  no  night !  Out  of  darkness  and  the  deep  minor  keys 
of  the  soul  come  those  utterances  vast  and  flexible  enough 
to  contain  reality." 

"  Why  don't  you  write,  Andrew  ?  "  Cairns  asked. 

"  New  York  has  brought  one  thought  to  my  mind 
with  such  intensity,  that  all  others  seem  to  have  dropped 
back  into  the  melting-pot,"  Bedient  answered. 

"And  that  one?" 

"  The  needs  of  women." 

"  I  have  heard  your  tributes  to  women " 

"  I  have  uttered  no  tributes  to  women,  David !  "  Be 
dient  said,  with  uncommon  zeal.  "  Women  want  no 
tributes ;  they  want  truth.  .  .  .  The  man  who  can 
restore  to  woman  those  beauties  of  consciousness  which 
belong  to  her — which  men  have  made  her  forget — just 
a  knowledge  of  her  incomparable  importance  to  the  race, 
to  the  world,  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven — and  help  woman 
to  make  men  see  it;  in  a  word,  David,  the  man  who 
can  make  men  see  what  women  are,  will  perform  in  this 
rousing  hour  of  the  world — the  greatest  good  of  his 
time!" 

"  Go  on,  it  is  for  me  to  listen !  " 

"  You  can  break  the  statement  up  into  a  thousand 
signs  and  reasons,"  said  Bedient.  "  We  hear  such  won- 


"Through  Desire  For  Her "  171 

derful  things  about  America  in  Asia — in  India.  Waiting 
for  a  ship  in  Calcutta,  I  saw  a  picture-show  for  the  first 
time.  It  ran  for  a  half  hour,  showing  the  sufferings  of  a 
poor  Hindu  buffeted  around  the  world — a  long,  dreary 
portion  of  starvation,  imprisonment  and  pain.  The  dra 
matic  climax  lifted  me  from  the  chair.  It  was  his  heaven 
and  happiness.  His  stormy  passage  was  ended.  I  saw 
him  standing  in  the  rain  among  the  steerage  passengers 
of  an  Atlantic  steamer — and  suddenly  through  the  gray 
rushing  clouds,  appeared  the  Goddess  of  Liberty.  He 
had  come  home  at  last — to  a  port  of  freedom  and  peace 
and  equality — : — " 

"  God  have  mercy  on  him,"  murmured  Cairns. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bedient,  "  a  poor  little  shaking  picture 
show,  and  I  wept  like  a  boy  in  the  dark.  It  was  my 
New  York,  too.  .  .  .  But  we  shall  be  that — all  that 
the  world  in  its  distress  and  darkness  thinks  of  us,  we 
must  be.  You  know  a  man  is  at  his  best  with  those  who 
think  highly  of  him.  The  great  world-good  must  come 
out  of  America,  for  its  bones  still  bend,  its  sutures  are 
not  closed.  .  .  .  You  and  I  spent  our  early  years 
afield  with  troops  and  wars,  before  we  were  adult  enough 
to  perceive  the  bigger  conflict — the  sex  conflict.  This  is 
on,  David.  It  must  clear  the  atmosphere  before  men  and 
women  realize  that  their  interests  are  one;  that  neither 
can  rise  by  holding  down  the  other ;  that  the  present  rela 
tions  of  men  and  women,  broadly  speaking,  are  false  to 
themselves,  to  each  other,  and  crippling  to  the  morality 
and  vitality  of  the  race. 

"  You  have  seen  it,  for  it  is  about  you.  The  heart 
of  woman  to-day  is  kept  in  a  half-starved  state.  That's 
why  so  many  women  run  to  cultists  and  false  prophets 
and  devourers,  who  preach  a  heaven  of  the  senses.  In 
another  way,  the  race  is  sustaining  a  tragic  loss.  Look 
at  the  young  women  from  the  wisest  homes — the  finest 
flower  of  young  womanhood — our  fairest  chance  for  sons 
of  strength.  How  few  of  them  marry !  I  tell  you,  David, 
they  are  afraid.  They  prefer  to  accept  the  bitter  alter- 


172  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

native  of  spinsterhood,  rather  than  the  degrading  sense 
of  being  less  a  partner  than  a  property.  They  see  that 
men  are  not  grown,  except  physically.  They  suffer,  un- 
mated,  and  the  tragedy  lies  in  the  leakage  of  genius  from 
the  race." 

Cairns'  mind  moved  swiftly  from  one  to  another  of 
the  five  women  he  had  called  together  to  meet  his  friend. 

"  David,"  Bedient  added  after  a  moment,  "  the  man 
who  does  the  great  good,  must  do  it  through  women,  for 
women  are  listening  to-day!  Men  are  down  in  the  clat 
ter — examining,  analyzing,  bartering.  The  man  with  a 
message  must  drive  it  home  through  women !  If  it  is  a 
true  message,  they  will  feel  it.  Women  do  not  analyze, 
they  realize.  When  women  realize  their  incomparable 
importance,  that  they  are  identified  with  everything 
lovely  and  of  good  report  under  the  sun,  they  will  not 
throw  themselves  and  their  gifts  away.  First,  they  will 
stand  together — a  hard  thing  for  women,  whose  great 
love  pours  out  so  eagerly  to  man — stand  together  and 
demand  of  men,  Manliness.  Women  will  learn  to  with 
hold  themselves  where  manliness  is  not,  as  the  flower 
of  young  womanhood  is  doing  to-day.  ...  I  tell 
you,  David,  woman  can  make  of  man  anything  she  wills 
— by  withholding  herself  from  him.  .  .  .  Through 
his  desire  for  her!  .  .  .  This  is  her  Power.  This 
is  all  in  man  that  electricity  is  in  Nature — a  measureless, 
colossal  force.  Mastering  that  (and  to  woman  alone  is 
the  mastery),  she  can  light  the  world.  Giving  away  to  it 
ignorantly,  she  destroys  herself." 

.  .  .  So  much  was  but  a  beginning.  Their  talk 
that  night  was  all  that  the  old  Luzon  nights  had  prom 
ised,  which  was  a  great  deal,  indeed.  ...  It  was  not 
until  Cairns  was  walking  home,  that  he  recalled  his  first 
idea  in  looking  in  upon  Bedient  that  night — a  sort  of 
hope  that  his  friend  would  talk  about  Vina  Nettleton  in 
the  way  Beth  had  suggested.  "  How  absurd,"  he  thought, 
"  that  is  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  he  would  leave  for  me 
to  find  oi:t !  " 


SEVENTEENTH  CHAPTER 

THE  PLAN   OF  THE  BUILDER 

NEW  YORK  had  brought  Andrew  Bedient  rather  mar 
vellously  into  his  own.  He  awoke  each  morning  with 
a  ruling  thought.  He  lived  in  a  state  of  continual  trans 
port  ;  he  saw  all  that  was  savage  in  his  race,  and  missed 
little  that  was  beautiful.  Work  was  forming  within  him ; 
he  felt  all  the  inspiritings,  all  the  strange  pressures  of  his 
long  preparation.  He  realized  that  his  thirty-three  years 
had  been  full  years ;  that  all  the  main  exteriors  of  man's 
life  had  passed  before  him  in  swift  review,  as  a  human 
babe  in  embryo  takes  on  from  time  to  time  the  forms 
of  the  great  stations  of  evolution.  He  had  passed  without 
temptation  from  one  to  another  of  the  vast  traps  which 
catch  the  multitude ;  nor  tarried  at  a  single  one  of  the 
poisoned  oases  of  sense.  Mother  Earth  had  taken  him  to 
her  breast ;  India  had  lulled  his  body  and  awakened  his 
spirit;  he  had  gone  up  to  his  Sinai  there. 

He  looked  back  upon  the  several  crises  in  which  he 
might  have  faltered,  and  truly  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  been  guided  through  these,  by  some  wiser  spirit, 
by  something  of  larger  vision,  at  least,  than  his  own 
intelligence.  Humility  and  thankfulness  became  resur 
gent  at  the  memory  of  these  times.  Books  of  beauty  and 
wisdom  had  come  to  his  hand,  it  seemed,  at  the  certain 
particular  instants  when  he  was  ready.  Exactly  as  he 
had  been  spared  the  terrible  temptations  of  flesh  in  his 
boyhood  years,  so  had  he  preserved  a  humble  spirit  in 
his  intellectual  attainments.  It  was  not  he,  but  the  poise 
that  had  been  given  him,  through  which  he  was  enabled 
to  cry  out  in  gratitude  this  hour;  for  the  soul  of  man 
meets  a  deadlier  dragon  in  intellectual  arrogance  than 
in  the  foulest  pits  of  flesh.  The  Destiny  Master  can 
smile  in  pity  at  a  poor  brain,  brutalized  through  bodily 

173 


174  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

lusts,  but  white  with  anger  is  the  countenance  that  re 
gards  a  spirit,  maimed  and  sick  from  being  yoked  to 
gether  with  a  proud  mind.  Angels  burst  into  singing 
when  that  spirit  is  free. 

His  health  was  a  perfect  thing ;  of  that  kind  that  men 
dream  of,  and  boys  know,  but  do  not  stop  to  feel.  He 
could  smell  the  freshness  of  pure  water  in  his  bath  or 
when  he  drank ;  there  was  delight  in  the  taste  of  common 
foods;  at  night  in  his  high  room,  higher  still  than  the 
studio  of  Vina  Nettleton,  there  were  moments  when  the 
land-wind  seemed  to  bring  delicacies  from  the  spring 
meadows  of  Jersey ;  or  blowing  from  the  sea,  he  sensed 
the  great  sterile  open.  He  was  tireless,  and  could  dis 
cern  the  finest  prints  and  weaves  at  bad  angles  of  light. 

He  moved  often  along  the  water-fronts  and  through 
abandoned  districts ;  a  curious  sense  of  unreality  often 
came  over  him  in  these  night  rambles,  as  if  he  were 
tranced  among  the  perversions  of  astral  light.  He  gave 
a  great  deal,  but  saw  that  if  he  gave  his  life  nightly, 
even  that  would  not  avail.  His  money  was  easily  passed 
into  another  hand;  that  would  not  do — little  vessels  of 
oil  overturned  upon  an  Atlantic  of  storm.  These  were 
but  tentative  givings ;  they  denied  him  nothing.  Bedient 
saw  that  he  must  give  more  than  this,  and  waited  for  the 
way.  .  .  .  The  most  poignant  and  heart-wringing 
experience  for  him  in  New  York  was  suddenly  to  find 
himself  in  the  midst  of  the  harried  human  herd,  when 
it  was  trying  to  play.  One  can  best  read  a  city's  tragedy 
at  its  pleasure-places. 

.  .  .  Beth  Truba  was  his  great  ignition.  His  love 
for  her  overflowed  upon  all  things.  .  .  .  The  hour 
or  more  in  her  studio  became  the  feature  of  his  day. 
Bedient  was  not  shown  the  work  on  the  portrait.  Beth 
didn't  altogether  like  the  way  it  progressed.  Sometimes, 
she  talked  as  she  worked  (sitting  low  beneath  the  sky 
light,  so  that  every  change  of  light  was  in  her  hair,  while 
the  spring  matured  outside).  Deep  realities  were  often 


The  Plan  of  the  Builder  175 

uttered  thus,  sentences  which  bore  the  signet  of  her 
strong  understanding,  for  they  passed  through  the  stimu 
lated  faculties  of  the  artist,  engrossed  in  her  particular 
expression.  Thus  the  same  intelligence  which  colored 
her  work,  distinguished  her  sayings.  .  .  .  Bedient 
daily  astonished  her.  Again  and  again,  she  perceived  that 
he  had  come  to  New  York,  full  of  power  from  his  silences 
apart.  She  wanted  him  to  preserve  his  freshness  of 
vision.  His  quiet  expressions  thrilled  her. 

"  The  women  I  know,  married  or  unmarried,  are 
nearly  all  unhappy,"  she  said,  one  day.  "  My  younger 
friends,  even  among  girls,  are  afraid.  They  see  that  men 
are  blinded  by  things  they  can  taste  and  see  and  touch — 
speed,  noise  and  show.  The  married  women  are  restless 
and  terrified  by  spiritual  loneliness.  The  younger  women 
see  it  and  are  afraid." 

"  '  Had  I  but  two  loaves  of  bread,  I  should  sell  one  to 
buy  white  hyacinths,' "  Bedient  quoted ;  "  I  like  to  think 
of  that  line  of  Mahomet's.  .  .  .  Women  are  ready 
for  white  hyacinths — the  bread  of  life.  .  .  .  But 
this  spiritual  loneliness  is  a  wonderful  sign.  The  spirit 
floods  in  where  it  can — where  it  is  sought  after — and  the 
children  of  women  who  are  hungry  for  spiritual  things, 
are  children  of  dreams.  They  must  be.  They  may  not 
be  happy,  but  they  will  feel  a  stronger  yearning  to  go  out 
alone  and  find  '  the  white  presences  among  the  hills/  " 

Beth  was  silent. 

"  Yearning  is  religion,"  Bedient  added.  "  Hunger 
of  the  heart  for  higher  things  will  bring  spiritual  expan 
sion.  Look  at  the  better-born  children  to-day.  I  mean 
those  who  do  not  have  every  chance  against  them.  I  seem 
to  catch  a  new  tone  in  the  murmur  of  this  rousing  genera 
tion.  They  have  an  expanded  consciousness.  It  is  the 
spiritual  yearnings  of  motherhood." 

"  But  what  of  the  woman  who  will  not  take  the  bowl 
of  porridge  that  ordinary  man  gives  her  ? "  Beth  de 
manded.  "  So  many  women  dare  not — cannot — and  then 


176  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

their  dreams,  their  best,  are  not  reflected  in  the  conscious 
ness  of  the  new  race." 

Bedient  smiled,  and  Beth  regarded  her  work  intently, 
for  an  echo  of  the  confessional  had  come  back  to  her 
from  her  own  words. 

"  That  is  a  matter  so  intensely  individual,"  he  replied. 
"  We  are  at  the  beginning  of  the  woman's  era,  and  with 
every  transition  there  are  pangs  to  be  suffered  by  those 
who  are  great  enough.  These  great  ones  are  especially 
prepared  to  see  how  terrible  is  their  denial  from  the 
highest  privileges  of  woman.  And  yet  they  may  be 
spiritual  mothers,  centres  of  pure  and  radiant  energy. 
Every  work  of  genius  has  been  inspired  by  such  a  woman. 
And  if,  as  sometimes  happens,  a  true  lover  does  come, 
the  two  are  so  happy  that  the  temperature  of  the  whole 
race  warms  through  them." 

"  What  an  optimist ! "  she  said,  but  when  alone,  it 
came  to  her  that  he  had  been  less  certain  than  usual  in  this 
answer.  Perhaps,  he  had  felt  her  stress  upon  realizing 
the  personal  aspect ;  perhaps  he  had  too  many  things 
to  say,  and  was  not  ready.  It  was  a  matter  intensely 
individual.  However,  this  was  the  only  time  he  had 
failed  to  carry  her  critical  attention. 

Bedient  saw  that  the  years  had  locked  one  door  after 
another  about  the  real  heart  of  Beth  Truba.  His  work 
was  plain — to  unlock  them  one  by  one.  How  the  task 
fascinated ;  he  made  it  his  art  and  his  first  thought. 

"  You  change  so,"  she  complained  laughingly,  after 
there  had  been  several  sittings.  "  I'm  afraid  I  shall  paint 
you  very  badly  because  I  am  trying  so  hard.  You  don't 
look  at  all  the  same  as  you  did  at  first.  Therefore  all  the 
first  must  be  destroyed." 

Bedient  knew  if  his  work  prospered,  all  that  had  been 
before  would  be  redeemed. 

One  morning — it  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  May 
mornings — there  was  something  like  heart-break  in  the 


The  Plan  of  the  Builder  177 

room.  Up  on  the  skylight,  the  sparrows  were  debating 
whether  it  would  rain  or  not.  There  was  tension  in  the 
air,  which  Bedient  tried  to  ease  from  every  angle.  Con 
summately  he  set  about  to  restore  and  reassure,  but  she 
seemed  to  feel  her  work  was  faring  ill ;  that  life  was  an 
evil  thing.  All  the  brightness  that  had  suffused  her  mind 
from  his  presence,  again  and  again,  had  vanished  appar 
ently,  leaving  not  the  slightest  glow  behind. 

"  Don't  bother  to  work  on  this  to-day,"  he  said.  "  I 
am  not  in  the  slightest  hurry  and  you  are  to  do  it  wonder 
fully.  Please  be  sure  that  I  know  that.  .  .  .  Will 
you  go  with  me  to  the  Metropolitan  galleries  to-day  ?  " 

Beth  smiled,  and  went  on  deliberating  before  the 
picture.  Presently,  the  tension  possessed  her  again.  She 
looked  very  white  in  the  North  light. 

"  Did  you  ever  doubt  if  you  were  really  in  the 
world  ?  "  she  asked  after  a  moment,  but  did  not  wait, 
nor  seem  to  expect  an  answer.  .  .  .  "I  have,"  she 
added,  "  and  concluded  that  I  only  thought  I  was  here — 
a  queer  sense  of  unreality  that  has  more  than  once  sent 
me  flying  to  the  telephone  after  a  day's  work  alone — 
to  hear  my  own  voice  and  be  answered.  But,  even  if 
one  proves  that  one  is  indeed  here,  one  can  never  get 
an  answer  to  the  eternal — What  for?  ...  I  shall 
do  a  story,  sometime,  and  call  it  Miss  What  For. 
.  .  .  A  young  girl  who  came  into  the  world  with 
greatness  of  vitality  and  enthusiasm,  alive  as  few  humans 
are,  and  believing  in  everything  and  everybody.  Before 
she  was  fully  grown,  she  realized  that  she  was  not  sought 
after  so  much  as  certain  friends  whose  fathers  had 
greater  possessions.  This  was  terrible.  It  took  long  for 
her  to  believe  that  nothing  counted  so  much  as  money. 
It  made  the  world  a  nightmare,  but  she  set  to  work  to 
become  her  own  heiress.  ...  In  this  struggle  she 
must  at  last  lose  faith.  This  can  be  brought  about  by 
long  years,  smashing  blows  and  incredible  suffering,  but 
the  result  must  be  made  complete — to  fit  the  title." 
12 


178  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  But,  why  do  you  try  to  fit  such  a  poor  shivering 
little  title?" 

She  smiled  wearily.  "  I  was  trying,  pefhaps,  to 
picture  one  of  your  spiritual  mothers,  centres  of  pure 
and  radiant  energy,  in  one  of  the  other  moments,  that 
the  world  seldom  sees.  The  power  is  almost  always 
turned  on,  when  the  world  is  looking." 

She  had  made  him  writhe  inwardly,  as  no  one  else 
could. 

"  But  there  are  many  such  women,"  she  went  on, 
"  victims  of  your  transition  period,  caught  between  the 
new  and  the  old,  helpers,  perhaps,  of  the  Great  Forces 
at  work  which  will  bring  better  conditions;  but  oh,  so 
helpless !  .  .  .  They  may  bring  a  little  cheer  to  pass 
ing  souls  who  quickly  forget;  they  may  even  inspire 
genius,  as  you  say,  but  what  of  themselves  when  they, 
all  alone,  see  that  they  have  no  real  place  in  the  world, 
no  lasting  effect,  leaving  no  image,  having  no  part  in  the 
plan  of  the  Builder?" 

Bedient  arose.    Beth  saw  he  was  not  ready  to  answer. 

"  A  visit  to  the  galleries  is  tempting,"  she  said.  "  It 
may  give  me  an  idea.  ...  I  never  had  quite  such 
a  patron.  You  are  so  little  curious  to  see  what  I  have 
done,  that  I  sometimes  wonder  why  you  wanted  the  por 
trait,  and  why  you  came  to  me  for  it.  ...  I  wonder 
if  it's  the  day  or  my  eyes — it's  so  much  easier  to  talk 
aimlessly  than  to  work " 

"  It's  really  gray,  and  the  sparrows  have  decided 
upon  a  shower." 

She  regarded  him  whimsically. 

"  And  you  look  so  well  in  your  raincoat,"  he  added. 

They  took  the  'bus  up  the  Avenue.  .  .  .  She  pointed 
out  the  tremendous  vitalities  of  the  Rodin  marbles, 
intimated  their  visions,  and  remarked  that  he  should  hear 
Vina  Nettleton  on  this  subject. 

"  She  breaks  down,  becomes  livid,  at  the  stupidity  of 
the  world,  for  reviling  her  idol  on  his  later  work,  espe 
cially  the  bust  of  Balzac,  which  the  critics  said  showed 


The  Plan  of  the  Builder  179 

deterioration,"  Beth  told  him.  "As  if  Rodin  did  not 
know  the  mystic  Balzac  better  than  the  populace." 

"  It  has  always  seemed  that  the  mystics  of  the  arts 
must  recognize  one  another,"  Bedient  said.  ..."  I 
do  not  know  Balzac " 

"  You  must.  Why,  even  Taine,  Sainte  Beuve,  and 
Gautier  didn't  know  him !  They  glorified  his  work  just 
so  long  as  it  had  to  do  with  fleshly  Paris,  but  called  him 
mad  in  his  loftier  altitudes  where  they  couldn't  follow." 

It  was  possibly  an  hour  afterward,  when  Bedient 
halted  before  a  certain  picture  longer  than  others ;  then 
went  back  to  another  that  had  interested  him.  Moments 
passed.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  exteriors,  but 
vibrated  at  intervals  from  one  to  another  of  these — two 
small  silent  things — Le  Chant  du  Berger  and  another. 
They  were  designated  only  by  catalogue  numbers.  Beth, 
who  knew  them,  would  have  waited  hours.  .  .  . 
Presently  he  spoke,  and  told  her  long  of  their  effects, 
what  they  meant  to  him. 

"  You  have  not  been  here  before  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No." 

"You  don't  know  who  did  those  pictures?" 

"  No." 

"  Puvis  de  Chavannes." 

"  The  name  is  but  a  name  to  me,  but  the  work — 
why,  they  are  out  of  the  body  entirely!  I  can  feel  the 
great  silence !  "  he  explained,  and  told  her  of  his  cliff  and 
God-mother,  of  Gobind,  the  bees,  the  moon,  the  standing 
pools,  the  lotos,  the  stars,  the  forests,  the  voices  and  the 
dreams.  .  .  .  They  stood  close  together,  talking  very 
low,  and  the  visitors  brushed  past,  without  hearing. 

"If  not  the  greatest  painter,  Puvis  de  Chavannes  is 
the  greatest  mural  painter  of  the  nineteenth  century," 
Beth  said.  "  Rodin,  who  knew  Balzac,  also  knew  Puvis 
de  Chavannes.  .  .  .  '  The  mystics  of  the  arts  know 
one  another,' "  she  added.  "  I  saw  Rodin's  bust  and 
statue  of  these  men  in  Paris." 

To  Beth,  the  incident  was  of  inestimable  importance 


180  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

in  her  conception  of  Bedient.  ...  A  Japanese  group 
interested  him  later — an  old  vender  of  sweetmeats  in  a 
city  street,  with  children  about  him — little  girls  bent  for 
ward  under  the  weight  of  their  small  brothers.  Beth 
regarded  the  picture  curiously  and  waited  for  Bedient  to 
speak. 

"  It's  very  real,"  he  said.  "  The  little  girls  are  crip 
pled  from  these  weights.  The  boy  babe  rides  his  sister 
for  his  first  views  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Look  at  the 
sweet  little  girl-faces,  haggard  from  the  burden  of  their 
fat-cheeked,  wet-nosed  brothers.  A  birth  is  a  miss  over 
there — a  miss  for  which  the  mother  suffers — when  it  is 
not  a  boy.  The  girls  of  Japan  carry  their  brothers  until 
they  begin  to  carry  their  sons.  You  need  only  look  at 
this  picture  to  know  that  here  is  a  people  messing  with 
uniforms  and  explosives,  a  people  still  hot  with  the  ape 
and  the  tiger  in  their  breasts." 

Beth  was  thinking  that  America  was  not  yet  aeons 
distant  from  this  Japanese  institution,  the  male  incubus 
of  the  girl  child.  She  did  not  speak,  for  she  was  thinking 
of  what  she  had  said  in  the  studio — of  the  edginess  of  her 
temper.  "  Spinsters  may  scold,  but  not  spiritual  mothers," 
she  thought.  She  might  have  been  very  happy,  but  for 
a  mental  anchor  fast  to  that  gloomy  mood  of  the  morn 
ing.  .  .  .  Hours  had  flown  magically.  It  was  past 
mid-afternoon.  .  .  .  There  was  one  more  picture 
that  had  held  him,  not  for  itself,  but  like  the  Japanese 
scene,  for  the  thoughts  it  incited.  .  .  .  An  aged 
woman  in  a  cheerless  room,  bending  over  the  embers  of 
a  low  fire.  In  the  glow,  the  weary  old  face  revealed  a 
bitter  loneliness,  and  yet  it  was  strangely  sustained.  The 
twisted  hands  held  to  the  fire,  would  have  fitted  exactly 
about  the  waist  of  a  little  child — which  was  not  there. 

"  I  would  call  her  The  Race  Mother,"  Bedient  said 
reverently.  "  She  is  of  every  race,  and  every  age.  She 
has  carried  her  brothers  and  her  sons ;  given  them  her 
strength ;  shielded  them  from  cold  winds  and  dangerous 


The  Plan  of  the  Builder  181 

heats ;  given  them  the  nourishment  of  her  body  and  the 
food  prepared  with  her  hands.  Their  evils  were  her  own 
deeper  shame ;  their  goodness  or  greatness  was  of  her 
conceiving,  her  dreams  first.  Her  sons  have  turned  to 
her  in  hunger,  her  mate  in  passion,  but  neither  as  their 
equal.  For  that  which  was  noble  in  their  sight  and  of 
good  report,  they  turned  to  men.  In  their  counsels  they 
have  never  asked  her  voice ;  they  suffered  her  sometimes 
to  listen  to  their  devotions,  but  hers  were  given  to  them. 

"  They  were  stronger.  They  chose  what  should  be 
come  the  intellectual  growth  of  the  race.  Having  no  part 
in  this,  her  mind  was  stunted,  according  to  their  stand 
ards.  She  had  the  silences,  the  bearing,  the  services  for 
others,  the  giving  of  love.  She  loved  her  mate  sometimes, 
her  brothers  often,  her  sons  always, — and  served  them. 
Loving  much,  she  learned  to  love  God.  Silences,  and 
much  loving  of  men,  one  learns  to  love  God.  Silences 
and  services  and  much  loving  of  her  kind — out  of  these 
comes  the  spirit  which  knows  God. 

"  So  while  her  men,  like  children  with  heavy  blocks, 
were  passing  their  intellectual  matters  one  to  the  other, 
she  came  to  know  that  love  is  giving ;  that  as  love  pours 
out  in  service,  the  Holy  Spirit  floods  in;  that  spacious 
ness  of  soul  is  immortality ;  that  out  of  the  spaciousness 
of  soul,  great  sons  are  born.  .  .  .  And  here  and 
there  down  the  ages,  these  great  sons  have  appeared, 
veered  the  race  right  at  moments  of  impending  destruc 
tion,  and  buoyed  it  on." 

He  had  not  raised  his  voice  above  that  low  animate 
tone,  which  has  not  half  the  carrying  quality  of  a  whisper. 
Beth  had  hoped  for  such  a  moment,  for  in  her  heart  she 
knew  that  Vina  <Nettleton  had  felt  this  power  of  his. 
With  her  whole  soul,  she  listened,  and  the  look  upon  his 
face  which  she  wanted  for  the  portrait  lived  in  her  mind 
as  he  resumed: 

"  I  ask  you  to  look  how  every  evil,  every  combination 
of  hell,  has  arisen  to  tear  at  the  flanks  of  the  race,  for 


182  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

this  is  history.  Yet  a  few  women,  and  a  few  men,  the 
gifts  of  women,  have  arisen  to  save.  ...  Do  you 
think  that  war  or  money,  or  lust  of  any  kind,  shall  de 
stroy  us  now,  in  this  modern  rousing  hour,  with  woman 
at  last  coming  into  her  own — when  they  have  never  yet 
in  the  darkest  hour  of  the  world,  vanquished  a  single 
great  dream  of  a  pure  woman?  And  now  women  gen 
erally  are  rising  to  their  full  dreams;  approaching  each 
moment  nearer  to  that  glorious  formula  for  the  making  of 
immortals.  .  .  ." 

He  smiled  suddenly  into  her  white  face.  "  I  tell  you, 
Beth  Truba,"  he  said,  "  there  isn't  a  phase,  a  moment,  of 
this  harsh  hour  of  transition,  that  isn't  majestic  with 
promise!  .  .  .  It's  a  good  picture.  .  .  .  Dear 
old  mother,  in  every  province  of  the  soul,  she  is  a  step 
nearer  the  Truth  than  man.  The  little  matters  of  the 
intellect,  from  which  she  has  been  barred  for  centuries, 
she  shall  override  like  a  Brunhilde.  Even  that  which 
men  called  her  sins  were  from  loving.  .  .  .  Gaunt 
mother  with  bended  back — she  has  stood  between  God 
and  the  world;  she  has  been  the  vessel  of  the  Holy 
Spirit ;  she  is  the  Holy  Spirit  in  the  world ;  and  when  she 
shall  fully  know  her  greatness,  then  prophets  of  her 
bearing  shall  walk  the  earth." 

They  wound  through  the  park  in  the  rainy  dusk, 
emerging  in  Fifty-ninth  Street ;  and  even  then,  Beth  did 
not  care  to  ride,  so  they  finished  the  distance  to  her 
studio  in  the  Avenue  crowd. 


EIGHTEENTH  CHAPTER 

THAT  PARK  PREDICAMENT 

MORE  May  days  had  passed.  Bedient  came  in  from 
one  of  his  night-strolls,  just  as  an  open  carriage  stopped 
in  front  of  the  Club,  and  Mrs.  Wordling  called  his  name. 
He  waited  while  she  dismissed  her  driver  familiarly. 
.  .  .  The  Northern  beauty  of  the  night  was  full  of 
charm  to  him.  A  full  moon  rode  aloft  in  the  blue.  He 
had  been  thinking  that  there  was  cruelty  and  destruction 
wherever  crowds  gathered;  that  great  cities  were  not  a 
development  of  higher  manhood.  He  thought  of  the 
sparcely  tenanted  islands  around  the  world,  of  Australian, 
Siberian  and  Canadian  areas — of  glorious,  virgin  moun 
tain  places  and  empty  shores — where  these  pent  and  tort 
ured  tens  of  thousands  might  have  breathed  and  lived 
indeed.  All  they  needed  was  but  to  dare.  But  they 
seemed  not  yet  lifted  from  the  herd;  as  though  it  took 
numbers  to  make  an  entity,  a  group  to  make  a  soul.  The 
airs  were  still ;  the  night  serene  as  in  a  zone  of  peace 
blessed  of  God.  The  silence  of  Gramercy  gave  him  back 
poise  which  the  city — a  terrible  companion — had  torn 
apart. 

"  That's  old  John,  who  never  misses  a  night  at  my 
theatre  door,  when  that  door  opens  to  New  York,"  Mrs. 
Wordling  said.  "  He  only  asks  to  know  that  I  am  in  the 
city  to  be  at  my  service  night  or  day.  And  who  would 
have  a  taxicab  on  a  night  like  this?  .  .  .  Let's  not 
hurry  in.  ...  Have  you  been  away  ?  " 

"  No,  Mrs.  Wordling." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  are  rather  careless  with  your 
friends  ?  "  she  asked,  as  one  whom  the  earth  had  made 
much  to  mourn.  "  It  is  true,  I  haven't  been  here  many 
times  for  dinner  (there  have  been  so  many  invitations), 
but  breakfasts  and  luncheons — always  I  have  peeked  into 

183 


184  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

the  farthest  corners  hoping  to  see  you — before  I  sat  down 
alone." 

"  I  have  missed  a  great  deal,  but  it's  good  to  be 
thought  of,"  he  said. 

"  You  didn't  mean,  then,  to  be  careless  with  your 
friends?" 

"  No." 

"  I  thought  you  were  avoiding  me." 

"  If  there  were  people  here  to  be  avoided,  I'm  afraid 
I  shouldn't  stay." 

"  But  supposing  you  liked  the  place  very  much,  and 
there  was  just  one  whom  you  wished  to  avoid " 

He  laughed.  "  I  give  it  up.  I  might  stay — but  I 
don't  avoid — certainly  not  one  of  my  first  friends  in  New 
York " 

"  Yes,  I  was  a  member  of  the  original  company,  when 
David  Cairns'  Sailor-Friend  was  produced.  .  .  . 
How  different  you  seem  from  that  night !  "  she  added 
confidentially.  "  How  is  it  you  make  people  believe  you 
so?  You  have  been  a  great  puzzle  to  me — to  us.  I 
supposed  at  first  you  were  just  a  breezy  individual,  whom 
David  Cairns  (who  is  a  very  brilliant  man)  had  found 
an  interesting  type " 

"  So  long  as  I  don't  fall  from  that,  it  is  enough," 
Bedient  answered.  "  But  why  do  you  say  I  make  people 
believe ?" 

Mrs.  Wordling  considered.  "  I  never  quite  under 
stood  about  one  part  of  that  typhoon  story,"  she  quali 
fied.  "  You  were  carrying  the  Captain  across  the  deck, 
and  a  Chinese  tried  to  knife  you.  You  just  mentioned 
that  the  Chinese  died." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bedient,  who  disliked  this  part  of  the 
story,  and  had  shirred  the  narrative. 

"  But  I  wanted  to  hear  more  about  it " 

"  That  was  all.  He  died.  There  were  only  a  few 
survivors." 

Mrs.  Wordling's  head  was  high-held.     She  was  snif- 


That  Park  Predicament  185 

fing  the  night,  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur.  "  Do  you 
smell  the  mignonette,  or  is  it  Sweet  William?  Some 
thing  we  had  in  the  garden  at  home  when  I  was  little. 
.  .  .  Are  you  afraid  to  go  across  in  the  park — with 
me?" 

"  Sailors  are  never  afraid,"  he  said,  following,  her 
pointed  finger  to  the  open  gate. 

They  crossed  the  street  laughingly.  There  had  been 
no  one  at  the  Club  entrance.  .  .  .  They  never  de 
termined  what  the  fragrance  was,  though  they  strolled 
for  some  time  through  the  paths  of  the  park,  among  the 
thick  low  trees,  and  finally  sat  down  by  the  fountain. 
The  moonlight,  cut  with  foliage,  was  magic  upon  the 
water.  Bedient  was  merry  in  heart.  The  rising  error  which 
might  shadow  this  hour  was  clear  enough  to  him,  but 
he  refused  to  reckon  with  it.  He  was  interested,  and  a 
little  troubled,  to  perceive  there  was  nothing  in  common 
in  Mrs.  Wordling's  mind  and  his.  They  spoke  a  different 
language.  He  was  sorry,  for  he  knew  she  could  think 
hard  and  suddenly,  if  he  had  the  power  to  say  the  exact 
thing.  And  that  which  he  might  have  taken,  and  which 
her  training  had  designed  her  both  to  attract  and  exact, 
Bedient  did  not  want.  All  her  sighs,  soft  tones,  sudden 
nesses  and  confidences  fell  wide ;  and  yet,  to  Mrs.  Word- 
ling,  he  was  too  challenging  and  mysterious  for  her  to 
be  bored  an  instant.  Their  talk  throughout  was  trifling 
and  ineffectual,  as  it  had  begun.  Mrs.  Wordling  was  not 
Bedient's  type.  No  woman  could  have  dethroned  Beth 
Truba  this  hour.  Bedient  was  not  sorry  (nothing  he 
had  said  seemed  to  animate)  when  Mrs.  Wordling  arose, 
and  led  the  way  to  the  gate  .  .  .  which  had  been 
locked  meanwhile. 

Mrs.  Wordling  was  inclined  to  cry  a  little.  "  One 
couldn't  possibly  climb  the  fence !  "  she  moaned. 

"  They  have  keys  at  the  Club,  haven't  they?  "  Bedient 
asked. 

"Yes.     All   the   houses   and   establishments   on   the 


186  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

park  front  have  keys.  It's  private — that  far.  ...  I 
should  have  known  it  would  be  locked  after  midnight. 
Our  talk  was  so  interesting!  .  .  .  Oh,  one  will  die 
of  exposure,  and  the  whole  Club  will  seethe." 

Bedient  patted  her  shoulder  cheerfully,  and  led  the 
way  along  the  fence  through  the  thick  greenery,  until 
they  were  opposite  the  Club  entrance.  He  had  not 
known  the  park  was  ever  locked.  He  saw  disturbance 
ahead — bright  disturbance — but  steadily  refused  to  grant 
it  importance.  He  was  sorry  for  Mrs.  Wordling. 

"  Let  the  Club  seethe,  if  it  starts  so  readily,"  he 
observed. 

The  remark  astonished  his  companion,  who  had  con 
cluded  he  was  either  bashful  to  the  depths,  or  some  other 
woman's  property,  probably  Beth  Truba's. 

"  But  you  men  have  nothing  to  lose !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  ask  you  to  pardon  me,"  Bedient  said  quickly.  "  I 
had  not  thought  of  it  in  that  way." 

They  were  watching  the  Club  entrance.  One  o'clock 
struck  over  the  city.  Mrs.  Wordling  had  become  cold, 
and  needed  his  coat,  though  she  had  to  be  forced  to  sub 
mit  to  its  protection.  At  last,  a  gentleman  entered  the 
Club,  and  Bedient  called  to  the  page  who  appeared  in 
the  doorway.  The  boy  stepped  out  into  the  street,  when 
called  a  second  time.  Bedient  made  known  his  trouble. 
The  keys  were  brought  and  richly  paid  for,  though 
Bedient  did  not  negotiate.  The  night-man  smiled  pleas 
antly,  and  cheered  them,  with  the  word  that  this  had 
happened  before,  on  nights  less  fine. 

David  Cairns  had  stepped  into  a  telephone-booth  in 
the  main-hall  of  the  Smilax  Club  the  following  after 
noon,  to  announce  his  presence  in  the  building  to  Vina 
Nettleton.  Waiting  for  the  exchange-operator  to  con 
nect,  he  heard  two  pages  talking  about  Bedient  and  Mrs. 
Wordling.  These  were  bright  street-boys,  very  clever 
in  their  uniforms,  and  courteous,  but  street-boys  never- 


That  Park  Predicament  187 

theless ;  and  they  had  not  noted  the  man  in  the  booth.  A 
clouded,  noisome  thing,  David  Cairns  heard.  Doubtless 
it  had  passed  through  several  grades  of  back-stair  intelli 
gence  before  it  became  a  morsel  for  Cairns'  particular 
informers.  Having  heard  enough  to  understand,  he 
kicked  the  door  shut,  and  Vina  found  him  distraught 
that  day.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  the  dusk  of  that  afternoon  when  Cairns  met 
Bedient,  whose  happiness  was  eminent  and  shining  as 
usual.  Cairns  gave  him  a  chance  to  mention  the  episode 
which  had  despoiled  his  own  day,  but  Bedient  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  it  remotely.  It  was  because  such  wonder 
ful  things  had  been  accomplished  in  his  own  life  that 
Cairns  was  troubled.  In  no  other  man  would  he  have 
objected  to  this  sort  of  affair,  though  he  might  have 
criticised  the  trysting-place  as  a  matter  of  taste.  He 
had  to  bring  up  the  subject. 

Bedient's  face  clouded.    "  How  did  you  hear?" 

Cairns  told,  but  spared  details. 

"  I  hoped  it  wouldn't  get  out  on  account  of  Mrs. 
Wordling,"  Bedient  said.  "  I  should  have  had  the  in 
stinct  to  spare  her  from  any  such  comments.  I  didn't 
know  the  laws  of  the  park.  It  was  a  perfect  night.  We 
talked  by  the  fountain.  She  was  the  first  to  suggest  that 
we  recross  the  street — and  there  we  were — locked  in." 

Cairns  asked  several  questions.  Once  he  started 
impatiently  to  say  that  Mrs.  Wordling  had  nothing  to 
lose,  but  he  caught  himself  in  time.  He  saw  that  Be 
dient  had  been  handled  a  bit,  and  had  only  a  vague  idea 
that  he  was  embroiled  in  a  scandal,  the  sordidness  of 
which  was  apt  to  reach  every  ear  but  the  principals'. 
At  all  events,  the  old  Bedient  was  restored ;  in  fact,  if  it 
were  possible,  he  was  brightened  at  one  certain  angle. 
Cairns  had  been  unable  to  forbear  this  question: 

"  But,  Andrew,  who  suggested  going  across  to  the 
park?" 

"  I  can't  just  say,"  Bedient  answered  thoughtfully. 


188  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  You  see  we  smelled  mignonette,  and  followed  a  com 
mon  impulse.  You  should  have  seen  the  night  to  under 
stand.  ...  I  say,  David,  can  I  do  anything  to 
straighten  this  out  for  Mrs.  Wordling?" 

"  Only  ignore  it,"  Cairns  said  hastily.  "  I'll  nip  it — 
wherever  it  comes  up.  And  the  next  time  a  woman 
asks " 


But  I  didn't  say- 


"  The  next  time  you  smell  mignonette,  think  of  it  as 
a  soporific.  Just  yawn  and  say  you've  been  working 
like  a  fire-horse  on  the  Fourth.  .  .  .  You  see,  it 
isn't  what  happens  that  gets  out  to  the  others,  including 
those  we  care  about,  but  what  is  imagined  by  minds 
which  are  not  decently  policed." 

"  Crowds  are  cruel,"  Bedient  mused. 

Cairns  had  found  it  hard  not  to  be  spiteful  toward 
one  whom  he  considered  had  abused  his  friend's  fineness. 
.  .  .  They  dined  at  the  Club.  The  talk  turned  to  a 
much  fairer  thing.  Bedient  saw  (with  deep  and  full  de 
light)  that  Cairns  had  sighted  his  island  of  that  Delec 
table  Archipelago,  and  was  making  for  it  full-sailed. 
An  enchanting  idea  came  to  Bedient  (the  fruit  of  an 
hour's  happy  talk),  as  to  the  best  way  for  Cairns  to 
make  a  landing  in  still  waters.  .  .  . 

Bedient  was  detailing  the  plan  with  some  spirit,  when 
Cairns'  hand  fell  swiftly  upon  his  arm.  ...  At  a 
near  table  just  behind,  Mrs.  Wordling  was  sitting  with 
a  gentleman.  Neither  had  noticed  her  come  in.  Mrs. 
Wordling  turned  to  greet  them.  She  was  looking  her 
best,  which  was  sensational. 


NINETEENTH   CHAPTER 

IN  THE  HOUSE   OF   GREY   ONE 

BEDIENT  went  one  morning  to  the  old  Handel  studio 
in  East  Fourteenth  Street.  The  Grey  One  had  asked  him 
to  come.  Bedient  liked  the  Grey  One.  He  could  laugh 
with  Mrs.  Wordling;  Vina  Nettleton  awed  him,  though 
he  was  full  of  praise  for  her ;  he  admired  Kate  Wilkes 
and  had  a  keen  relish  for  her  mind.  The  latter  had 
passed  the  crisis,  had  put  on  the  full  armor  of  the  world ; 
she  was  sharp  and  vindictive  and  implacable  to  the  world ; 
a  woman  who  had  won  rather  than  lost  her  squareness, 
who  showed  her  strength  and  hid  her  tenderness.  He 
had  rejoiced  in  several  brushes  with  Kate  Wilkes.  There 
was  a  tang  to  them.  A  little  sac  of  fiery  acid  had  formed 
in  her  brain.  It  came  from  fighting  the  world  to  the  last 
ditch,  year  after  year.  Her  children  played  in  the  quick- 
passing  columns  of  the  periodicals — ambidextrous,  un 
tamable,  shockingly  rough  in  their  games,  these  chil 
dren,  but  shams  slunk  away  from  their  shrill  laughter. 
In  tearing  down,  she  prepared  for  the  Builder. 

Bedient  was  not  at  all  at  his  best  with  Kate  Wilkes ; 
indeed,  none  of  the  things  that  had  aroused  Vina  and 
Beth  and  David,  like  sudden  arraignments  from  their 
higher  selves,  came  to  his  lips  with  this  indomitable  vet 
eran  opposite ;  still  he  would  go  far  for  ten  minutes  talk 
with  her.  She  needed  nothing  that  he  could  give;  her 
copy  had  all  gone  to  the  compositor,  her  last  forms  were 
locked;  and  yet,  he  caught  her  story  from  queer  angles 
on  the  stones,  and  it  was  a  transcript  from  New  York 
in  this,  the  latest  year  of  our  Lord.  .  .  . 

Bedient's  "  poise  and  general  decency "  disturbed 
the  arrant  man-hater  she  had  become;  she  called  him 
"  fanatically  idealistic,"  and  was  inclined  to  regard  him 
at  first  as  one  of  those  smooth  and  finished  Orientalists 
who  have  learned  to  use  their  intellects  to  a  dangerous 

189 


190  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

degree.  But  each  time  she  talked  with  him,  it  seemed 
less  possible  to  put  a  philosophical  ticket  upon  him. 
"  He's  not  Buddhist,  Vedantist,  neo-Platonist,"  she  de 
clared,  deeply  puzzled.  Somehow  she  did  not  attract 
from  him,  as  did  Vina  Nettleton,  the  rare  pabulum  which 
would  have  proved  him  just  a  Christian.  Finally,  from 
fragments  brought  by  Vina,  the  Grey  One,  and  David 
Cairns,  she  hit  upon  a  name  for  him  that  would  do,  even 
if  intended  a  trifle  ironically  at  first:  The  Modern.  She 
was  easier  after  that ;  became  very  fond  of  him,  and  only 
doubted  in  her  own  thoughts,  lest  she  hurt  his  work  with 
the  others,  the  good  of  which  she  was  quick  to  see. 
.  .  .  "  He  does  not  break  training,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  He  cut  out  a  high  place  and  holds  it  easily.  Suppose 
he  is  The  Modern?"  she  asked  finally.  "If  he  is,  we 
who  thought  ourselves  modern,  should  laugh  and  clap 
our  hands !  "  This  was  open  heresy  to  the  Kate  Wilkes 
of  the  world.  "  I  thought  I  was  past  that,"  she  sighed. 
"  Here  I  am  getting  ready  to  be  stung  again." 

Certain  of  her  barbed  sentences  caught  in  Bedient's 
mind :  "  Women  whom  men  avoid  for  being  '  strong- 
minded  '  are  apt  to  be  strongest  in  their  affections.  You 
can  prove  this  by  the  sons  of  clinging  vines."  .  .  . 
"  Beware  of  the  man  who  discusses  often,  and  broods 
much,  upon  his  spiritual  growth,  when  he  fails  to  make 
his  wife  happy."  .  .  .  "A  man's  courage  may  be 
just  his  cowardice  running  forward  under  the  fear  of 
scorn  from  his  fellows."  ..."  The  most  passionate 
mother  is  likely  to  be  the  least  satisfied  with  just  passion 
from  her  husband.  Wedded  to  a  man  capable  of  real  love, 
this  woman,  of  all  earth's  creatures,  is  the  most  natural 
monogamist."  .  .  .  "A  real  woman  had  three 
caskets  to  give  to  a  man  she  loved.  One  day  she  read  in 
his  eyes  that  he  could  take  but  the  nearest  and  lowest ; 
and  that  moment  arose  in  her  heart  the  wailing  cry : 
'  The  King  is  dead  ! ' '  ..."  The  half-grown  man 
never  understands  that  woman  is  happiest,  and  at  her 


In  the  House  of  Grey  One  191 

best  in  all  her  services  to  him,  when  he  depends  upon 
her  for  a  few  of  the  finer  things."     .     .     . 

Also  Kate  Wilkes  had  a  way  of  doing  a  memorable 
bit  of  criticism  in  a  sentence  or  two:  Regarding  Mac- 
Dowell,  the  American  composer,  "  He  left  the  harvest 
to  the  others,  but  what  exquisite  gleanings  he  found !  " 
.  .  .  As  to  Nietschze :  "  He  didn't  see  all ;  his  isn't 
the  last  word ;  but  he  crossed  the  Forbidden  Continent, 
and  has  spoken  deliriously,  half-mad  from  the  journey." 
.  .  .  And  her  beloved  Whitman,  "  America's  wisest 
patriot."  .  .  . 

Bedient  liked  the  Grey  One.  He  liked  her  that  after 
noon,  when  she  asked  if  he  cared  to  come  up  to  Vina 
Nettleton's  with  her.  There  was  real  warmth  in  her 
manner  from  the  first.  .  .  .  Always  that  illusion  of 
having  played  with  her  long  ago,  stole  into  mind  with 
her  name  or  presence.  (Once  he  had  found  her  sobbing, 
about  something  she  wouldn't  tell.  She  had  always  been 
ready  to  give  up  things.  The  smile  she  had  for  him, 
would  remain  upon  her  lips,  while  she  thought  of  some 
thing  else.  She  would  leave  the  others  and  wait  for  him 
to  come  and  find  her.)  These  things  were  altogether 
outside  of  human  experience,  a  sweet  and  subtly  attrac 
tive  run  of  vagaries  which  had  to  do  with  a  tall  yellow- 
haired  maid,  now  Marguerite  Grey.  .  .  .  From 
something  Cairns  had  said,  Bedient  knew  she  was  un 
happy.  He  saw  it  afresh  when  he  entered  the  big  still 
place  where  she  was.  She  had  been  working,  but 
dropped  a  curtain  over  the  easel  as  he  entered. 

"  Did  I  come  at  a  wrong  time  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  can 
just  as  well  come  again." 

"  I  don't  know  of  any  time  so  good.  You  may  not 
want  to  come  again." 

She  had  not  been  weeping.  He  saw  that  with  a 
quick  look.  It  was  deeper  than  that — something  cold 
and  slow  and  creeping,  that  made  her  reckless  with 


192  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

hatred,  and  writhing.  Answering  Bedient's  swift  glance, 
she  perceived  that  he  had  seen  deeply,  and  was  glad. 
It  eased  her;  she  hoped  he  had  seen  all,  for  she  was 
sick  with  holding  her  own.  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  her 
soft  voice  was  telling  him  about  her  house.  The  pictures 
of  her  own  here  and  there,  were  passed  over  quickly. 
Children,  these,  that  the  world  had  found  wanting; 
badly-brought-up  children  that  the  world  had  frightened 
back  to  the  parent  roof  where  they  warred  with  one 
another. 

Back  of  all,  Bedient  saw  a  most  feminine  creature  in 
the  Grey  One,  naturally  defenceless  in  her  life  against 
the  world ;  a  woman  so  preyed  upon  by  moods  that  many 
a  time  she  gladly  would  have  turned  devil,  but  was  help 
less  to  know  how  to  begin ;  again  and  again  plucked  to 
the  quick  by  the  world.  She  had  put  on  foreign  scepti 
cisms,  and  pitifully  attempted  to  harden  herself ;  but  the 
hardening,  try  as  she  would,  could  not  be  spread  evenly. 
It  didn't  protect  her,  as  Kate  Wilkes'  did,  only  made 
her  the  more  misunderstood.  She  did  not  have  less  talent 
than  Vina  or  Beth ;  indeed,  she  had  been  considered  of 
rather  rich  promise  in  Paris ;  but  she  had  less  developed 
energies  and  balance  to  use  them,  less  physique.  She 
lacked  the  spirit  of  that  little  thoroughbred,  Vina  Nettle- 
ton,  and  the  pride  and  courage  of  Beth  Truba.  The  Grey 
One  had  been  badly  hurt  in  that  sadly  sensitive  period 
which  follows  the  putting  away  of  girlish  things — when 
womanhood  is  new  and  wonderful.  She  was  slow  to 
heal.  Few  men  interested  her,  but  she  needed  a  man- 
friend,  some  one  to  take  her  in  hand.  She  had  needed 
such  a  one  for  years.  He  would  have  been  of  little  use, 
had  he  not  come  at  this  time.  Bedient's  eager  friendli 
ness  for  this  woman  was  one  of  the  most  interesting 
things  he  had  encountered  in  New  York,  a  sort  of  fellow 
ship  which  no  one  else  had  evoked.  The  Grey  One  had 
felt  something  of  this,  but  had  learned  to  expect  so  little, 
that  she  had  not  allowed  herself  to  think  about  it.  Only 


In  the  House  of  Grey  One  193 

she  had  felt  suddenly  easier,  perceiving  the  comprehen 
sion  in  his  glance. 

They  had  talked  an  hour,  and  were  having  tea.  He 
admired  some  of  her  pictures  unreservedly.  They  were 
like  her  voice  to  him — lingering,  soft,  mysteriously  of  the 
long-ago.  Their  settings  were  play-places  that  he  might 
have  imagined.  She  believed  what  he  said,  but  did  not 
approve  of  his  perception.  She  had  lost  faith.  It  was 
the  sailor  part  of  him  that  liked  her  pictures. 

"  I  had  great  dreams  when  I  came  to  New  York  three 
years  ago,"  she  said  somewhat  scornfully.  "  For  a  time 
in  Paris,  I  did  things  with  little  thought,  and  they  took 
very  well.  I  must  have  been  happy.  Then  when  I  came 
here,  all  that  period  was  gone.  I  was  to  be  an  artist — 
sheer,  concentrated,  the  nothing-else  sort  of  an  artist. 
And  things  went  so  well  for  a  time.  That's  queer  when 
you  think  of  it.  The  papers  took  me  up.  They  gave  me 
an  exhibition  at  the  Smila.v  Club,  and  not  a  few  things 
were  disposed  of.  In  fact,  when  I  learned  that  this 
studio  was  to  be  let,  I  was  so  prosperous  as  to  consider 
it  none  too  adequate  for  Margie  Grey  herself 

"  Since  then  these  things  and  others  have  been  done, 
and  they  haven't  struck  the  vogue  at  all.  First,  I  thought 
it  was  just  one  of  those  changing  periods  which  come 
to  every  artist,  in  which  one  does  badly  during  the  transi 
tion.  I  have  continued  to  do  badly.  It  was  not  a  change 
of  skin.  I  have  become  sour  and  ineffectual,  and  know 
it " 

"  You  won't  mind  if  I  say  you  are  wrong?  "  Bedient 
asked  quietly. 

"  No,"  she  laughed.  "  Only  please  don't  tell  me  that 
I'm  only  a  little  ahead  of  my  time ;  that  presently  these 
things  will  dart  into  the  public  mood,  and  people  will 
squabble  among  themselves  to  possess  them " 

"  I  might  have  told  you  just  that — if  you  hadn't 
warned  me.  ...  I  like  your  woods ;  they're  the  sort 
of  woods  that  fairies  come  to;  and  I  like  your  fields 
13 


194  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

and  afternoons — I  can  hear  the  bees  and  forget  myself 
in  them.  I  know  they're  good." 

The  Grey  One  whipped  out  a  match  and  cigarette 
from  the  pocket  of  her  blouse,  lit  it  and  stared  at  her 
covered  easel.  "  You  have  your  way,  don't  you  ?  "  she 
asked,  and  her  lips  were  tightened  to  keep  from  trem 
bling. 

"  It  isn't  a  way,"  he  said.  "  It's  a  matter  of  feeling. 
I  never  judge  a  book  or  picture,  but  when  I  feel  them, 
they  are  good  to  me.  I  would  have  stopped  before  some 
of  these  in  any  gallery,  because  I  feel  them.  They  make 
me  steal  away " 

"  I'm  hard-hearted  and  a  scoffer,"  she  said,  holding 
fast.  "  It  isn't  that  I  want  to  be — oh,  you  are  different. 
I  don't  believe  you  were  ever  tired!  ...  I  see  what 
David  Cairns  meant  about  your  coming  up  here  out  of 
the  seas  with  a  fresh  eye — and  all  your  ideals.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  see — we're  all  tired  out !  New  York  has  made 
us  put  our  ideals  away — commercial,  romantic — every 
sort  of  ideal.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  harder  for  a  woman  to 
talk  like  this  than  for  a  man ;  she's  slower  to  learn  it. 
When  a  woman  does  learn  it,  you  may  know  she  carries 
scars " 

The  Grey  One  arose.  She  looked  tall  and  gaunt,  and 
her  eyes  had  that  burning  look  which  dries  tears  before 
they  can  be  shed.  He  did  not  hasten  to  speak. 

"  It's  crude  to  talk  so  to  you,  but  you  came  to-day," 
she  went  on.  "  I  had  about  given  up.  The  race — oh, 
it's  a  race  to  sanctuary  right  enough — but  so  long! 
.  .  .  In  the  forenoons  one  can  run,  but  strength 
doesn't  last." 

With  a  quick  movement,  the  Grey  One  tossed  up  the 
covering  from  the  easel.  He  saw  a  girl  in  red,  natty 
figure,  piquant  face.  It  was  not  finished.  She  was  to 
stand  at  the  head  of  a  saddle-horse,  as  yet  embryonic. 
She  stepped  hastily  to  a  little  desk  and  poked  at  a  for 
midable  pile  of  business-looking  correspondence. 


In  the  House  of  Grey  One  195 

"  Do  these  look  like  an  artist's  communications  ? " 
she  asked  in  the  dry  pent  way  that  goes  with  burning 
eyes.  .  .  .  "  They  are  not,  but  letters  to  one  who 
paints  for  lithographers'  stones!  See  here " 

And  now  she  lifted  a  couch-cover,  and  drew  from 
beneath  a  big  portfolio  which  she  opened  on  the  floor 
before  him.  It  was  filled  with  flaring  magazine  covers, 
calendars,  and  other  painted  products  having  to  do  with 
that  expensive  sort  of  advertising  which  packing-houses 
and  steel-shops  afford.  Girls — girls  mounted  side  and 
astride,  girls  in  racing-shells  and  skiting  motor-boats, 
in  limousines  and  runabouts,  in  dirigibles  and  'planes; — 
seaside,  mountain  and  prairie  girls ;  house-boat,  hunting 
and  skating  girls ;  even  a  vivid  parlor  variety — all  con 
ventional,  colorful  and  unsigned. 

"  Eight  years  in  Europe  for  these,"  she  said  in  a 
dragging,  morbid  tone.  "  And  the  letters  on  the  table 
say  I  may  do  more,  as  the  managers  of  shirt-waist 
factories  might  say  to  poor  sewing-women  when  busi 
ness  is  good.  And  they  pay  piece-work  prices  just  the 
same ;  and  they  want  girls,  not  real  girls,  but  things 
of  bright  paint  like  these!  Oh,  they  know  what  they 
want — and  they  must  be  common  in  order  to  suit — girls 
of  just  paint " 

"  And  women  of  just  flesh,"  said  Bedient.  "  New 
York  has  shown  me  that  about  so  many  men ! " 

This  startled  her — made  her  forget  the  sailor  part. 
It  was  particularly  in  the  range  of  her  mood  that  moment, 
and  seemed  finished. 

"  You're  going  to  feel  a  lot  better,  and  soon,"  he  went 
on.  "  It's  going  to  be  much  better  than  you  think " 

She  drew  suddenly  back,  hatred  altering  her  features 
as  a  gust  of  wind  on  the  face  of  a  pool. 

"  You  mean  my  marriage  ?  "  she  asked,  clearing  her 
voice. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  to  be  married,"  he 
said  quickly.  "  I'm  sorry  not  to  have  been  clearer.  I 


196  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

meant  the  days  to  come  through  your  work — and  nothing 
more." 

"  A  few  have  heard  that  I'm  to  be  married,"  she 
said.  "  I  thought  you  had  heard.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
it  is  not  settled.  Oh,  I  have  croaked  to  you  terribly — 
please  forgive  me !  " 

"  That  first  night,  I  felt  that  we  were  old  friends 
at  once,"  he  added,  rising  and  standing  before  her.  "  The 
next  day,  you  said  it  was  just  like  a  dream — the  night 
before — and  it  was  the  same  to  me.  We  went  up  to  Miss 
Nettleton's  on  the  minute,  just  as  if  we  were  old  play 
mates,  and  you  had  said,  '  Let's '  .  .  .  So  to 
day,  you  have  only  told  an  old  friend  things — trying 
things — exactly  as  you  should.  And  I — I  think  you're 
brave  to  have  done  so  well — for  so  long.  I  like  New 
York  better.  I'm  coming  again.  I  like  your  pictures. 
They  are  not  just  paint.  .  .  .  Hasn't  anyone  told 
you — don't  you  know — that  it  wouldn't  hurt  you  at  all 
to  do  the  others — if  your  real  pictures  were  just  paint? 
And  since  you  are  driven  to  do  them,  and  don't  do  them 
out  of  greed,  nor  through  commonness,  nor  by  habit, 
they  can't  hurt  your  real  work?  I  really  believe,  too, 
that  it  is  what  you  have  done  that  will  help  you,  and 
bring  the  better  times,  and  not  what  anyone  else  will  do. 
.  .  .  I  seem  to  be  talking  a  great  deal — as  I  could 
not  at  all,  except  for  the  sense  of  an  old  friend's  author 
ity,  and  to  one  I  have  found  rare  and  admirable.  Be 
lieve  me,  I  have  very  good  eyes, — New  York  has  not 
printed  its  metal  soul  upon  you." 

The  Grey  One  had  listened  with  bowed  head.  A 
tall  woman  is  at  her  loveliest,  standing  so.  She  regarded 
his  face  searchingly  for  an  instant,  smiled,  and  turned 
away 

Bedient  asked  no  one.  He  did  not  know  that  the 
race  Marguerite  Grey  was  running  was  with  American 
dollars,  and  that  the  sanctuary  she  meant  was  only  a 


In  the  House  of  Grey  One  197 

debtless  spinsterhood.  He  did  not  know  that  she  dared 
not  give  up  the  Handel  studio  while  she  held  a  single 
hope  of  her  vogue  returning.  Only  the  great,  who  are 
permitted  eccentricities,  dare  return  to  their  garrets. 
Nor  did  Bedient  know  that  her  marriage  meant  she  had 
failed  utterly,  and  that  another  must  square  her  debts; 
that  only  out  of  the  hate  of  defeat  could  she  give  herself 
for  this  price.  .  .  .  Still,  Bedient  knew  quite 
enough. 

It  was  a  little  later,  after  he  had  been  truly  admitted 
into  the  circle  he  loved  so  well,  that  Beth  told  him  the 
story  of  the  Grey  One's  first  collision  with  the  man 
world.  It  was  a  rainy  afternoon ;  they  were  together  in 
the  studio  he  always  entered  with  reverence. 

"  She  is  different  from  Vina,"  Beth  said,  speaking 
of  Marguerite  Grey.  "  She  has  been  working  fearfully 
and  she's  not  made  for  such  furious  sessions  as  Vina  Net- 
tleton  can  endure.  Vina  seems  replenished  by  her  own 
atmosphere.  She  told  me  once  that  when  her  work  is 
coming  well,  her  whole  body  sings,  all  the  functions  in 
rhythm.  Aren't  people  strange?  That  little  soft  thing 
with  baby  hands!  Why,  her  physical  labor  alone  some 
days  would  weary  a  strong  man — and  that  is  the  thought 
less  part. 

"  But  I  was  telling  you  about  the  Grey  One.  Some 
times  I  think  she  is  more  noble  than  we  understand — 
one  of  those  strange,  solitary  women  who  love  only 
once.  At  least,  she  seems  to  ask  only  success  in  her 
work,  and  what  that  will  bring  her."  Beth  thought  a 
moment  of  the  horrible  alternative  which  she  did  not 
care  to  explain  to  Bedient.  "  A  few  years  ago  in  Europe 
— just  a  young  thing,  she  was,  when  she  met  her  hero. 
He  was  a  good  man,  and  loved  her.  I  knew  them  both 
over  there.  In  the  beginning,  it  was  one  of  those  really 
golden  romances,  and  in  Italy.  One  day,  a  woman  came 
to  the  Grey  One,  and  in  the  lightest,  brassiest  way,  asked 
to  be  congratulated  on  her  engagement,  mentioning  the 


198  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

man  whose  attentions  Marguerite  had  accepted  as 
a  heavenly  dispensation.  This  was  in  Florence.  The 
woman  hurried  away  that  day  for  London.  The  Grey 
One,  just  a  gullible  girl,  was  left  half  dead.  When  her 
lover  came,  she  refused  to  see  him.  He  wrote  a  letter 
which  she  foolishly  sent  back,  unopened.  And  she  re 
turned  to  Paris — all  this  in  the  first  shock.  .  .  .  She 
did  not  hear  from  him  again  for  two  years.  Word 
came  that  he  was  married — no,  not  to  that  destroyer,  but 
to  a  girl  who  made  him  happy,  let  us  hope.  The  Grey 
One  penetrated  then  to  the  truth.  He  had  only  a  laugh 
ing  acquaintance  with  the  other  woman  to  whom  he  was 
one  of  several  chances.  Leaving  Florence,  she  had  crip 
pled  the  Grey  One.  This  is  just  the  bare  fact — but  it 
is  enough  to  show  how  the  lie  of  a  worthless  woman — 
kept  Marguerite  from  happiness.  And  she  has  remained 
apart.  .  .  .  It  is  said  that  the  Grey  One  encountered 
the  destroyer  here  in  New  York  a  few  months  ago,  the 
first  time  since  that  day  in  Florence.  So  natural  was 
evil  to  this  woman,  that  she  did  not  remember,  but  came 
forward  gushingly — and  would  have  kissed  her  victim. 


TWENTIETH  CHAPTER 

A  CHEMISTRY  OF  SCANDAL 

BETH  had  seen  Andrew  Bedient  almost  daily  for 
three  weeks.  Many  wonderful  moments  had  been  passed 
together;  indeed,  there  were  moments  when  he  reached 
in  her  mind  that  height  he  had  gained  at  once  in  the 
ideals  of  Vina  Nettleton.  But  he  was  sustained  in  Vina's 
mind,  while  Beth  encountered  reactions.  .  .  .  "I 
believe  he  is  beyond  sex — or  fast  going  beyond — though 
he  may  not  know  it,"  Vina  had  said  in  effect.  .  .  . 
On  the  contrary,  the  Shadowy  Sister  had  sensed  a  lover 
in  the  room.  Beth  had  perceived  what  Vina  meant — 
the  mystic  who  worshipped  woman  as  an  abstraction — 
but  it  had  also  come  to  her,  that  he  could  love  one. 

Beth  would  not  trust  the  Shadowy  Sister,  but  was 
determined  to  judge  Bedient  according  to  world  stand 
ards.  Plainly  she  attracted  him,  but  could  not  be  sure 
that  her  attraction  was  unique,  though  she  always  re 
membered  that  he  had  told  of  his  mother  only  to  her. 
He  had  a  different  mood,  a  different  voice  almost,  for 
each  of  the  other  women  of  their  acquaintance.  His 
liking  for  the  Grey  One  mystified  Beth;  Vina  Nettleton 
had  charmed  him,  brought  forth  in  a  single  afternoon 
many  intimate  things  from  his  depths.  He  spoke  pleas 
antly  of  Mrs.  Wordling. 

The  Shadowy  Sister  was  bewitched.  To  her  a  great 
lover  had  come — a  lover  who  had  added  to  a  boy's  deli 
cacy  and  beauty  of  ideal,  a  man's  certainty  and  power. 
This  was  the  trusting,  visionary  part  of  Beth,  that  had 
not  entered  at  all  into  the  other  romance.  Beth  refused 
now  to  be  ruled  by  it.  The  world  had  hurt  her.  The 
fault  was  not  hers,  but  the  world's.  The  only  profit  she 
could  see  to  be  drawn  from  her  miseries  of  the  past  was 
to  use  her  head  to  prevent  repetition.  Hearts  were 
condemned. 

199 


200  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

And  yet,  the  contrasting  conduct  of  the  Shadowy  Sis 
ter  in  this  and  that  other  romance,  was  one  of  the  most 
astonishing  things  in  Beth's  experience.  (Sailor-man 
had  but  to  enter  and  speak,  for  Shadowy  Sister  to  appear 
in  kneeling  adoration.) 

Often  Bedient  was  allowed  to  stay  while  she  worked 
at  other  things.  His  own  portrait  prospered  slowly,  a 
fact  in  which  the  world  might  have  found  humor.  And 
often  they  talked  together  long  after  the  slanting  light 
had  made  work  impossible ;  their  faces  altered  in  the  dim 
place;  their  voices  low.  .  .  .  There  were  moments 
when  the  woman's  heart  stirred  to  break  its  silence ;  when 
the  man  before  her  seemed  bravely  a  man,  and  the  con 
fines  of  his  nature  to  hold  magnificent  distances.  If  she 
could  creep  within  those  confines,  would  it  not  mean  truly 
to  live?  .  .  .  But  the  years  would  sweep  through 
her  mind — grim,  gray,  implacable  chariots — and  in  their 
dusty  train,  the  specific  memories  of  fleshly  limitation 
and  untruth.  To  survive,  she  had  been  forced  to  lock 
her  heart ;  to  hold  every  hope  in  the  cold  white  fingers 
of  fear ;  cruelly  to  curb  the  sweep  of  feminine  outpouring, 
lest  its  object  soften  into  chaos ;  and  roused  womanhood, 
returning  empty — overwhelm.  This  is  the  sorriest  in 
stinct  of  self-preservation. 

She  would  have  said  at  this  time  that  Andrew  Bedient 
had  not  aroused  the  woman  in  her  as  the  Other  had  done. 
Indeed,  she  paled  at  the  thought  that  the  Other  had 
exhausted  a  trifle,  her  great  force  of  heart-giving.  There 
had  been  beauty  in  such  a  bestowal — pain  and  passion — 
but  beauty,  too.  .  .  .  Another  strange  circumstance: 
Bedient  had  made  her  think  of  the  Other  so  differently. 
She  had  half  put  away  her  pride ;  she  might  have  been 
too  insistent  for  her  rights.  The  Other  really  had  im 
proved  miraculously  from  the  poor  boy  who  had  come 
to  their  house.  And  to  the  artist's  eye,  he  was  command- 
ingly  masculine,  a  veritable  ideal.  .  .  .  Bedient  was 
different  every  day. 


A  Chemistry  of  Scandal  201 

The  visit  to  the  gallery,  too,  had  given  Beth  much 
to  think  over.  What  he  had  said  about  the  pictures, 
especially  before  the  one  he  had  called  The  Race  Mother, 
had  revealed  his  processes  of  mind,  and  made  her  feel 
very  small  for  a  while.  She  saw  that  all  her  own  talk 
had  not  lifted  from  herself,  from  her  own  troubles,  and 
certain  hateful  aspects  of  the  world;  while  his  thoughts 
had  concerned  the  sufferings  of  all  women,  and  the 
fruitage  that  was  to  come  from  them.  She  had  talked 
for  herself ;  he  for  the  race.  But  he  had  merely  observed 
the  life  of  women,  while  she  had  lived  that  life. 

Why  did  Andrew  Bedient  continue  to  show  her 
seemingly  inexhaustible  sources  of  fineness,  ways  so 
delicate  and  wise  that  the  Shadowy  Sister  was  conquered 
daily,  and  was  difficult  to  live  with?  It  is  true  that 
Bedient  asked  nothing.  But  if  the  hour  of  asking 
struck,  what  should  she  say  to  him?  (Here  Shadowy 
Sister  was  firmly  commanded  to  begone.)  Beth  had  not 
been  able  to  answer  alone.  .  .  .  Could  Vina  Nettle- 
ton  be  right?  Was  her  studio  honored  by  a  man  who 
was  beyond  the  completing  of  any  woman?  If  so,  why 
did  Shadowy  Sister  so  delight  in  him?  Or  was  this 
proof  that  he  was  not  designed  to  be  the  human  mate 
of  woman  ?  These  were  mighty  quandaries.  Beth  deter 
mined  to  talk  about  prophets  when  he  came  again. 
.  .  .  Her  friends  told  her  she  hadn't  looked  so  well 
in  years. 

Beth  drew  forth  at  length  a  picture  of  the  Other 
Man,  that  she  had  painted  recently  from  a  number  of 
kodak  prints.  The  work  of  a  miniature  had  been  put 
upon  it.  A  laughing  face,  a  reckless  face,  but  huge  and 
handsome.  Before  her,  was  the  contrasting  work  of  the 
new  portrait.  The  two  pictures  interested  her  together. 
*  -  '.  .  Bedient  was  at  the  door.  It  was  his  hour.  Beth 
placed  the  smaller  picture  upon  the  mantle,  instead  of  in 
its  hidden  niche — and  admitted  the  Shadowy  Sister's 
Knight.  .  .  . 


202  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  I  saw  Vina  yesterday,"  she  observed,  after  work 
was  begun.  "  She  was  still  talking  about  prophets  and 
those  other  things  you  said " 

"  What  a  real  interest  she  has,"  Bedient  answered. 
"  She  has  asked  me  for  a  Credo — in  two  or  three  hun 
dred  words — to  embody  the  main  outline  of  the  talk 
that  day.  Perhaps  it  can  be  done.  I'm  trying." 

"  How  interesting !  " 

"  If  one  could  put  all  his  thinking  into  a  few  pages, 
that  would  be  big  work."  .  .  . 

After  a  pause,  Beth  said: 

"  Don't  think  I'm  flippant  if  I  ask :  How  do  these 
men  who,  in  their  maturity,  become  great  spiritual  forces, 
escape  being  caught  young  by  some  perceiving  woman  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  the  question  could  be  put  better," 
Bedient  said.  "  There  is  often  a  time  in  the  youth  of 
men,  to  whom  illumination  comes  later,  when  they  hang 
divided  between  the  need  of  woman  and  some  inner 
austerity  that  commands  them  to  go  alone." 

"  If  they  disobey,  does  the  light  fail  to  come?  "  Beth 
asked. 

"  It  is  less  likely  to  come.  But  then,  often  the  youth 
of  such  men  is  spent  in  some  great  passion  for  an  un 
attainable  woman,  a  distant  star  for  the  groping  years. 
In  other  cases,  women  have  divined  the  mystic  quality, 
and  instead  of  giving  themselves,  have  held  the  young 
visionaries  pure.  Again,  poverty,  that  grim  stepmother 
of  the  elect,  often  intervenes.  And  to  common  women — 
such  lovers  are  absurd,  beyond  comprehension.  That 
helps.  .  .  .  Illumination  comes  between  the  age  of  thirty 
and  forty.  After  that,  the  way  is  clear.  They  do  not 
grope,  they  see ;  they  do  not  believe,  they  feel  and  know." 

Beth  found  these  things  absorbing,  though  she 
accepted  them  only  tentatively.  She  saw  they  were  real 
to  him — as  bread  and  wool  and  paint. 

"  There  is  an  impulse,  too,  among  serious  young 
men  to  live  the  life  of  asceticism  and  restraint,"  Bedient 


A  Chemistry  of  Scandal  203 

added.  "  It  comes  out  of  their  very  strength.  This  is 
the  hasty  conclusion  of  monasteries " 

"Hasty?" 

"  Well — unfledged  saints  fall.  .  .  Their  growth 
becomes  self-centred.  The  intellect  expands  at  the  ex 
pense  of  soul,  a  treacherous  way  that  leads  to  the  dark. 
.  .  .  And  then — a  man  must  father  his  own  children 
beautifully  before  he  can  father  his  race." 

"  That  sounds  unerring  to  me,"  Beth  said. 

"Why,  it's  all  the  Holy  Spirit  driving  the  race!" 
Bedient  exclaimed  suddenly.  "You  can  perceive  the 
measure  of  it  in  every  man.  Look  at  the  multitude. 
The  sexes  devour  each  other;  marriage  is  the  vulgarest 
proposition  of  chance.  Men  and  women  want  each 
other — that  is  all  they  know.  They  have  no  exquisite 
sense  of  selection.  In  them  this  glorious  driving  Energy 
finds  no  beautiful  surfaces  to  work  upon,  just  the  pas 
sions,  the  meat-fed  passions.  Here  is  quantity.  Nature 
is  always  ruthless  with  quantity,  as  cities  are  ruthless 
with  the  crowds.  Here  is  the  great  waste,  the  tearing- 
down,  and  all  that  is  ghastly  among  the  masses ;  yet  here 
and  there  from  some  pitiful  tortured  mother  emerges  a 
faltering  artist — her  dream." 

"  You  never  forget  her,  do  you, — that  figure  which 
sustains  through  the  darkness  and  horror?" 

"  I  cannot,"  he  smiled.  "  No  race  would  outlast  a 
millenium  without  her.  Such  women  are  saviors — always 
giving  themselves  to  men — silently  falling  with  men." 

"But  about  the  artist?"  Beth  asked.  "What  is  his 
measure  of  the  driving  Energy?  How  does  it  work 
upon  him  ?  " 

"  He  has  risen  from  the  common,"  Bedient  replied. 
"  He  feels  the  furious  need  of  completion,  some  one  to 
ignite  his  powers  and  perfect  his  expression.  It  is  a 
woman,  but  he  has  an  ideal  about  her.  He  rushes  madly 
from  one  to  another,  as  a  bee  to  different  blooms.  The 
flesh  and  the  devil  pull  at  him,  too ;  surface  beauty  blinds 


£04  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

him,  and  the  world  he  has  come  from,  hates  him  for 
emerging.  It  is  a  fight,  but  he  has  not  lost,  who  fails 
once.  The  women  who  know  him  are  not  the  same  again. 
The  poor  singer  destroys  his  life,  but  leaves  a  song,  a 
bit  of  fastidiousness.  The  world  remembers  the  song, 
links  it  with  the  destroyed  life,  and  loves  both. 

"  But  look  at  the  mother-given  prophets  standing 
alone,  militant  but  tender,  the  real  producers!  The 
spirit  that  sparks  fitfully  in  the  artist  is  a  steady  flame 
now.  Their  giving  is  to  all,  not  to  one.  What  they 
take  of  the  world  is  very  little,  but  through  them  to  the 
world  is  given  direct  the  Holy  Spirit.  Saint  Paul  and 
the  Forerunner  are  the  highest  types,  and  in  perspective. 
Their  way  is  the  way  of  the  Christ,  Who  showed  the 
world  that  unto  the  completed  union  of  Mystic  Woman 
hood  and  militant  manhood,  is  added  Godhood. 

"  There  are  immediate  examples  of  men  maturing  in 
prophecy,"  Bedient  concluded.  "  Men  in  our  own  lives 
almost — Whitman,  Lincoln,  Thoreau,  Emerson,  Carlyle, 
Wordsworth.  See  the  poise  and  the  service  which  came 
from  their  greater  gifts.  Contrast  them  with  the  beauti 
ful  boys  who  searched  so  madly,  so  vainly,  among  the 
senses — Burns,  Byron,  Shelley,  Keats,  Poe.  What  noble 
elder  brothers  they  are !  More  content,  they  have,  more 
soul-age,  more  of  the  visioning  feminine  principle. 
.  .  .  And  see  how  flesh  destroys!  In  the  small  mat 
ter  of  years  they  lived,  the  prophets  more  than  doubled 
the  age  of  the  singers.  Their  greatest  work  was  done 
in  the  years  which  the  lyric-makers  did  not  reach.  .  .  . 
The  great  masses  of  the  world  have  not  yet  the  spark 
which  shows  itself  in  the  singing  poetic  consciousness. 
Such  men  are  mere  males,  leaning  upon  matter,  soldiers 
and  money-makers,  pitifully  unlit,  chance  children,  with 
out  fastidiousness,  but  all  on  the  road." 

"  There  will  be  plenty,  yes,  more  than  plenty,"  said 
Beth,  "  to  take  the  places  of  those,  who  confine  their 
parenthood  to  the  race." 


A  Chemistry  of  Scandal  205 

Bedient  was  gone,  and  though  his  incorruptible  opti 
mism  was  working  more  than  ever  in  her  heart,  that 
which  she  had  sought  to  learn,  had  not  come.  Prophet 
or  not,  his  smile  at  the  door  had  left  something  volatile 
within  her,  something  like  girlhood  in  her  heart.  He 
had  not  overlooked  the  picture  upon  the  mantel.  Twice 
she  had  looked  up,  and  found  him  regarding  it.  ... 
It  was  the  late  still  time  of  afternoon.  Beth  felt  emo 
tional.  She  ran  over  several  songs  on  the  piano,  while 
the  dusk  thickened  in  the  studio.  One  was  about  an 
Indian  maiden  who  yearned  for  the  sky-blue  water ;  an 
other  about  an  Irish  Kathleen  who  gave  her  lover  to 
strike  a  blow  for  the  Green ;  and  still  another  concerned 
a  girl  who  would  rather  lie  in  the  dust  of  her  lord's 
chariot  than  be  the  ecstasy  of  lesser  man.  Beth  Truba's 
face  was  upturned  to  the  light — to  the  last  pallor  of  day. 
She  was  like  a  wraith  singing  and  communing  with  the 
tuneful  tragedies  of  women  world-wide.  But  there  was 
gaiety  in  her  heart.  .  .  .  Then  the  knocker,  the 
scurrying  of  dreams  away,  and  the  voice  of  Marguerite 
Grey  in  the  dark. 

"  Most  romantic — song,  hour  and  all/'  she  said,  while 
Beth  turned  on  the  lamps. 

"  Beth  Truba  is  naturally  so  romantic " 

"  Possibly  the  piano  could  tell  tales ;  I  know  my 
'cello  could,"  said  the  Grey  One.  "  Beth,  dear,  I  am 
touching  wood,  and  praying  to  preserve  'an  humble  and 
a  contrite  heart,'  but  reeking  with  commerce.  Sold  three 
pictures — real  pictures.  The  one  that  was  hanging  at 
Torvin's  so  long  was  sold  four  days  ago,  and  Torvin 
immediately  took  two  more " 

"  Margie  Grey,  there  are  few  things  you  could  tell 
to  make  me  happier,"  Beth  exclaimed,  coming  forward 
with  both  hands  out. 

"  I  know  it.    That's  why  I  came." 

"  With  Torvin  interested,  anything  is  liable  to  happen. 
He's  one  of  the  few  in  New  York  who  know,  and  those 


206  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

who  buy  carefully  know  he  knows.  Really  we  should 
celebrate.  .  .  .  Let's  get  Vina  to  go  with  us,  and 
we  three  set  out  in  search  of  an  absurd  supper " 

Beth  phoned  at  once.  Her  part  was  utterly  discon 
nected.  She  put  up  the  receiver,  smiling. 

"  What  have  you  to  say — about  those  two  going  out 
to  dinner?  " 

"  Vina  and  David  Cairns  ?  " 

"  Exactly." 

A  long,  low  talk  followed,  but  Beth  did  not  tell  that 
she  had  spurred  David  to  look  deeply  into  Vina's  case, 
through  a  remark  made  by  Andrew  Bedient.  .  .  . 
The  Grey  One  was  emancipated,  restless.  She  bloomed 
like  a  lily  as  she  moved  about  the  studio,  above  the 
shaded  reading-lamps.  Beth  felt  her  happiness,  the  in 
tensity  of  it,  and  rejoiced  with  her.  Bedient  came  in 
for  discussion  presently,  and  the  park  episode.  Beth, 
who  had  not  heard,  grew  cold,  and  remembered  her  own 
call  at  Mrs.  Wordling's  apartment,  with  the  poster. 
.  .  .  The  Grey  One  was  speaking  as  if  Beth  had 
heard  about  the  later  park  affair : 

"...  Sometimes  that  woman  seems  so  obvious, 
and  again  so  deep." 

"  I  have  failed  to  see  the  deep  part,"  Beth  ventured, 
turning  her  face  from  the  light. 

"  Evidently  she  interests  Mr.  Bedient." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  really  does  ?  "  Beth  said  idly.  The 
Grey  One  was  not  a  tale-bearer.  She  would  not  have 
spoken  at  all,  except  granting  Beth's  knowledge. 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  him  lose  caste  that  way,"  the  Grey 
One  went  on.  "  He's  too  splendid,  and  yet  she's  the  sort 
that  twirls  men.  She  knows  he  has  interested  all  of  us, 
and  doubtless  wants  to  show  her  strength.  Possibly  he 
hasn't  thought  twice  about  it.  That's  what  Vina  says. 
And  then  Mrs.  Wordling  was  one  of  those  first  asked  to 
meet  him.  I  wish  David  Cairns  hadn't  done  that " 

"  David's  idea  was  all  right,"  Beth  said  slowly.    "  He 


A  Chemistry  of  Scandal  207 

thought  one  of  her  kind  would  set  us  all  off  to  advantage. 
Then,  I  was  painting  her  poster " 

"  It  would  have  been  only  a  little  joke  in  a  man's  club, 
but  the  Smilax  took  to  it  as  something  looked  and  yearned 
for  long.  .  .  .  Two  things  appear  funny  to  me.  Mrs. 
Wordling  has  lived  at  the  Club  part  of  the  year  for  three 
years,  and  yet  didn't  know  the  Park  was  locked  at  mid 
night.  And  she,  who  has  done  all  the  crying  about  con 
sequences,  was  the  one  who  told  me " 

Beth  was  beginning  to  understand.  Here  was  an 
opening  such  as  she  had  awaited:  "  What  is  her  story?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Why,  they  met  between  eleven  and  twelve  coming 
into  the  Club— one  of  those  perfect  nights.  Wordling 
dismissed  her  carriage  and  talked  a  little  while  before 
going  in.  The  Park  looked  inviting  for  a  stroll — full 
moon,  you  know.  They  crossed.  Wordling  didn't  know 
or  had  forgotten  about  midnight  locking.  '  His  talk  was 
so  interesting/  she  said.  ...  It  was  after  one,  when 
Mr.  Bedient  hailed  a  page  at  the  Club  entrance." 

"  From  inside  the  bars,  across  the  street  ?  "  Beth  asked. 

"  Of  course.    The  boy  came  over  with  the  keys." 

"  How  clumsy  and  uninteresting,  even  innocence  of 
that  sort  can  be !  "  Beth  remarked.  "  And  Mrs.  Wordling 
was  so  zealous  for  you  to  hear  that  she  told  you 
herself?" 

"  That  is  rather  humorous,  isn't  it  ?  "  the  Grey  One 
agreed.  "  Of  course  she  supposed  I  had  heard,  and 
wanted  to  be  sure  the  truth  came  to  me.  I  think,  too,  she 
wanted  me  to  know  that  Mr.  Bedient  had  invited  her  to 
go  to  the  shore  for  a  few  days — later.  She  asked  if  I 
thought  she  had  better  go " 

"And  you  told  her?"  Beth  managed  to  say. 

"  Just  as  you  would,  that  she  was  an  adult  and  must 
use  her  own  judgment." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Beth,  and  then  a  sentence  got  away 
from  her,  though  she  contrived  to  garb  it  in  a  laugh. 


208  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  He  won't  go  to  the  shore  with  Mrs.  Wordling !     .    .    . 
Wait  until  I  get  my  hat." 

In  the  little  room  alone,  she  saw  that  the  long  dark 
road  must  be  traversed  again ;  the  chains  had  fallen  upon 
her  anew — their  former  wounds  yet  unhealed.  .  .  . 
The  old  lies  and  acting;  the  old  hateful  garment  for  the 
world  to  see ;  suffering  beneath  a  smile.  She  must  hear 
the  voice  of  Beth  Truba  lightly  observing  and  answering, 
while  she — the  heart  of  her — was  deathly  ill. 

Her  throat  tightened ;  it  seemed  her  breast  must  burst 
with  old  and  new  agonies.  Once  more  she  had  given  her 
full  faith.  This  was  clear  now.  She  had  been  a  weakling 
again,  and  tumultuously,  in  spite  of  an  ugly  warning! 
Had  she  not  called  at  Wordling's  apartment  with  the 
poster  ?  Had  she  not  heard  the  whispers,  the  overturned 
chair  and  scornfully  fathomed  the  delayed  answering  of 
the  door?  .  .  .  And  to  think  she  had  almost  suc 
ceeded  in  putting  that  rankling  incident  away,  though  he 
had  not  been  in  New  York  a  month.  And  the  shame  of 
it,  the  recent  hours  she  had  spent,  with  this  visionary 
thing ;  that  he  was  beyond  mating  with  a  woman  of  flesh 
— beyond  her  best — a  forerunner  with  glad  tidings  for  all 
women!  .  .  .  Forerunner,  indeed,  and  twice  caught 
in  a  second-rate  woman's  net  of  beguilings!  Twice 
caught,  and  how  many  times  uncaught?  .  .  .  And 
she  had  thought  herself  hard  and  sceptical  in  his  pres 
ence. 

The  old  romance  looked  clean  and  fair  compared  to 
this — the  old  lover,  boyish  and  forgivable.  He  had  not 
won  by  preaching.  .  .  .  Where  was  the  Shadowy 
Sister  now? 

There  was  no  quarter  for  Beth.  She  was  a  modern 
product,  a  twentieth  century  woman,  an  angry,  solitary, 
world-trained  woman,  who  could  not  make  a  concession 
to  imperfect  manhood.  This  was  the  key  to  all  her 
agonies.  She  had  asked  manhood  of  mind,  and  could 


A  Chemistry  of  Scandal  209 

not  accept  less.  The  awful  part  was  that  she  must  do 
over  again  all  the  hateful  strategies,  all  the  concealing 
and  worldliness — her  body,  mind  and  soul  sorely  crippled 
from  before.  That  she  must  thus  use  her  womanhood, 
her  precious  prime  of  strength.  One  experience  had 
not  hardened  her  enough.  With  what  corrosion  of  self- 
hatred  did  she  turn  upon  herself  that  moment! 

Her  intellect  had  faltered ;  the  Shadowy  Sister  had 
betrayed;  David  Cairns  had  been  consummately  stupid; 
Vina  Nettleton  was  soft  with  dreams,  and  not  to  be 
reckoned  with  in  the  world;  Vina  could  tell  her  woes, 
but  she,  Beth  Truba,  must  not  scream  nor  fall.  She  must 
face  the  woman  in  the  other  room,  sit  across  a  lighted 
table  for  an  hour,  and  talk  and  laugh.  Her  heart  cried 
out  against  this,  but  pride  uprose  to  whip — Beth's  iron 
pride  finished  under  the  world's  mastery.  Slowly,  rhyth 
mically,  the  blows  fell.  Beth  could  not  run  away. 

She  stretched  out  her  fingers,  which  were  biting  into 
her  palms,  drenched  her  face  with  cold  water,  breathed 
for  a  minute  by  the  open  window  like  a  doe  in  covert. 
.  .  .  There  was  ammonia,  and  she  inhaled  the  potent 
fumes.  .  .  . 

"  Pale  hands  I  loved 
Beside  the  Shalimar " 


hummed  the  Grey  One,  from  the  open  sheet  on  the  piano. 

Beth  faltered  at  the  door,  for  the  song  hurled  her 
back  to  an  hour  ago  with  bruising  force.  She  re-entered 
the*  little  room — to  fix  her  hat.  .  .  . 

"  You  weren't  long,  Beth,"  the  Grey  One  said. 

"  No  ?  .  .  .  I'm  glad  of  that,  but  speaking  of 
glad  things,  let  us  not  forget  Torvin." 

Beth  was  already  turning  out  the  lights. 

"  You  look  a  little  tired,  dear,"  the  Grey  One  said  in 
the  elevator. 

"  It's  the  time  of  day,"  Beth  responded  readily. 
"  After  being  in  all  day,  and  suddenly  deciding  to  go  out, 
14 


£10  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

haven't  you  felt  a  tension  come  over  you  as  if  you  could 
hardly  wait  a  minute  ?  " 

"  Many  times,  dear,  as  if  one  must  snatch  hat  and 
gloves  and  get  into  the  street  at  any  cost." 

Beth  came  in  alone  about  ten,  sighed  as  the  latch 
clicked,  and  sat  down  in  the  dark.  But  she  rose  again 
in  a  moment,  for  she  didn't  like  the  dark.  She  was  worn 
out,  even  physically ;  and  yet  it  was  different  now  from 
the  first  reaction.  Bedient  had  not  continued  to  fit  so 
readily  to  commonness,  as  in  those  first  implacable  mo 
ments  in  the  little  room.  He  had  never  judged  anyone 
in  her  presence;  had  spoken  well  of  everyone,  even  of 
Mrs.  Wordling.  He  was  no  intimidated  New  Yorker, 
who  felt  he  must  conduct  himself  for  the  eyes  of  others. 

Mrs.  Wordling  had  not  shown  the  quality  to  hold  the 
fancy  position  she  aspired  to,  in  the  little  circle  of  artists 
at  the  Club ;  and  retaliated  by  showing  her  power  over  the 
lion  of  this  circle.  She  had  challenged  him  to  cross  the 
street,  knowing  they  would  be  locked  in  and  that  the 
Club  would  hear.  She  had  desired  this,  having  nothing 
to  lose.  For  fear  the  Grey  One  had  not  heard,  she  had 
told  the  story.  The  recent  agony  in  the  little  room  was 
great,  above  the  Wordling's  expectations.  .  .  .  And 
now  Beth  faltered.  Had  Andrew  Bedient  asked  her  to 
join  him  somewhere  on  the  shore?  She  could  not  see 
him  asking  this;  and  yet,  regarded  as  a  fiction  plunge, 
it  seemed  bigger  and  more  formidable  than  Wordling 
could  devise. 

This  must  wait.  This  must  prove.  If  he  went  away — 
enough!  She  had  been  hasty  and  implacable  once — this 
time  she  would  wait. 

Beth  would  have  liked  to  talk  with  David  Cairns, 
but  she  could  not  bring  up  such  a  subject.  This  was  not 
her  sort  of  talk-material  with  him.  Plainly  he  would 
not  mention  it,  in  the  hope  that  her  ears  had  missed  it 
entirely. 


A  Chemistry  of  Scandal 

She  had  even  felt  a  rage  against  the  Grey  One  for 
bringing  the  news.  This  helped  to  show  how  maddened 
and  unjust  she  was,  in  those  first  terrible  moments. 
Piece  by  piece  she  had  drawn  the  odious  thing  from  her 
caller,  who  was  by  no  means  inclined  to  spread  and 
thicken  the  shadow  of  an  evil  tale.  Marguerite  Grey 
was  not  a  weigher  of  motives,  nor  penetrative  in  the 
chemistry  of  scandal.  So  many  testimonies  had  come  to 
her  of  the  world's  commonness  that  she  had  become  flex 
ible  in  judgment.  What  had  been  so  terrible  at  first  was 
to  identify  Andrew  Bedient  with  these  sordid  things,  so 
obvious  and  shallow.  But  was  he  identified  with  them? 
Rather,  did  he  not  feel  himself  sufficiently  an  entity  to 
be  safe  in  any  company?  Did  he  not  trust  her,  and 
worth-while  people,  to  grant  him  this  much?  .  .  . 
This  was  the  highest  point  in  the  upsweep  of  her  thoughts. 

So  the  story  extracted  from  the  Grey  One  was  held 
free  from  its  fatal  aspect,  until  time  should  dissolve  the 
matter  of  the  shore.  .  .  .  After  all,  the  lamplight, 
usually  soft  and  mellow  in  the  gold-brown  room,  held  an 
alien,  unearthly  glitter  for  Beth's  strained  eyes.  .  .  . 
Was  it  that  which  kept  the  Shadowy  Sister  afar,  as  the 
light  from  the  colored  pane  in  the  hall  of  his  bojhood 
had  frightened  him? 


TWENTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

THE  SINGING  DISTANCES 

DAVID  CAIRNS  was  coming  along.  He  had  ridden  his 
ego  down  stream,  until  he  heard  the  rapids.  Now  he 
was  towing  it  back.  He  planned  to  go  just  as  far  and  as 
fast  up  stream  as  he  could.  The  current,  to  him,  had  be 
come  the  crowd.  One  can  see  the  crowd  as  it  brushes 
past,  as  one  can  never  see  it  from  the  ruck.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  it  came  to  him  in  a  flash,  that  this  new  David 
Cairns  was  but  another  lie  and  pose — but  this  couldn't 
hold.  It  was  a  bit  of  deviltry  that  wouldn't  stand  scrutiny. 
There  had  been  too  much  unfolding  o'  nights ;  too  many 
gifts  found  upon  the  doorstep  of  his  mind  in  the  morn 
ing,  revealing  the  sleepless  activity  of  something  identified 
with  him,  but  wiser  than  he ;  too  much  cutting  down  of 
false  cultures,  and  outpourings  of  sincere  friendship,  and 
general  joy  of  giving.  Then,  there  was  some  real  clean- 
cut  thinking  that  expressed  itself  with  brevity  and  finish ; 
and  also,  the  wonder-working  in  his  heart — the  happiest 
thing  that  had  ever  befallen — his  conception  of  the  genius 
of  woman  in  Vina  Nettleton. 

Cairns'  experience  with  women  was  not  nearly  so 
large  as  it  looked.  He  had  known  many  women,  but  im 
personally.  He  was  late  to  mature,  and  all  his  younger 
energies  were  used  for  what  he  had  believed  to  be  the 
world's  work,  but  what  he  now  perceived  were  the  activi 
ties  of  a  vain,  ego-driven  intellect,  that  delighted  to  attract 
the  passing  eye  by  the  ring  of  the  anvil  and  a  great  show 
of  unsleeved  muscle.  Much  of  this  early  work  had  kept 
him  afield,  and  his  calls  home  to  -New  York  had  inflicted 
upon  him  the  fatal  stimulus  for  quantity.  His  still  earlier 
years  were  passed  in  a  home  where  a  placid  mother 
reigned,  and  a  large  family  of  sisters  served.  He,  there 
fore,  met  the  world's  women  without  that  mighty  tang 

212 


The  Singing  Distances  213 

of  novelty  which  features  the  young  manhood  of  the 
unsistered. 

He  had  undergone  his  mannish  period  of  treason  to 
women  generally.  These  were  the  days  when  he  believed 
in  using  force — punishing  with  words — "  punch,"  he 
called  it.  This  is  a  mental  indelicacy  which  the  ordinary 
man  seldom  outgrows.  His  crowning  fact  is  that  dyna 
mite  will  loosen  stumps  and  break  rock.  Therefore,  all 
that  is  not  dynamite  is  not  proper  man-stuff.  Woman, 
to  this  sort,  is  something  between  "  an  angel  and  an 
idiot."  She  must  be  guarded  from  herself  in  all  that  has 
to  do  with  thought  and  performance.  As  panderer  and 
caterer,  she  emphatically  belongs.  Young  men  grasp  this. 
If  they  reach  middle  age  with  it,  only  an  angel  can  roll 
the  stone  away. 

Cairns  now  realized  he  had  been  near  to  missing  one 
of  the  greatest  moments  that  come  into  the  life  of  man. 
What  chance  has  the  ordinary  male — half-grown,  except 
physically — of  ever  glowing  with  real  chivalry?  To 
him  women  are  easy,  common,  plentiful,  without  mystery 
or  lofty  radiance.  How  can  the  valor  of  humility  brighten 
his  quest  ?  How  can  he  be  a  lover — who  does  not  realize 
his  poverty,  his  evil,  the  vastness  of  his  need?  What 
does  it  mean  to  the  mere  male,  this  highest  of  earthly 
gifts,  the  glance  from  a  woman  which  ends  his  quest  of 
her,  the  gift  of  herself?  To  be  great  and  a  man,  and 
a  lover,  he  must  reach  that  point  of  declaration  which 
holds :  Without  her,  I  am  an  outcast;  with  her  I  can 
alter  worlds!  A  transcendent  moment  of  conquest  is  the 
winning  of  a  woman,  to  such  a  spirit.  .  .  . 

A  frightful  void  stretches  between  mere  man  and 
reality.  .  .  .  Mere  man  must  be  baptized  in  spirit 
to  feel  the  anguish  that  is  woman's,  to  give  her  real 
treasures  to  some  male.  Which  are  the  greater  artists  and 
producers,  the  saviors  of  the  race  ?  Those  heroines  who 
survive  the  heart-break  of  man's  indelicacy,  and  manage 
alone  to  give  their  treasures  to  their  children.  The  art  of 


214  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

such  women  lives,  indeed.  David  Cairns  was  coming 
along. 

The  work  that  Andrew  Bedient  began  in  the  Cairns 
mind  and  heart  was  being  finished  by  Vina  Nettleton. 
In  great  thirst  of  soul,  he  had  come  to  her  and  been 
restored.  He  was  very  eager  to  leave  all  he  had  in  the 
shelter  of  the  palms. 

"  David,"  Bedient  had  said,  "  there  is  only  one  greater 
work  for  a  man  in  the  world  than  making  a  woman 
happy;  and  that — making  all  women  happier!  It  seems 
that  an  avatar  must  come  for  that  soon.  To-day  the 
great  gifts  of  women  are  uncalled  for  by  men.  They 
cannot  take  each  other,  save  in  physical  arms.  There  is 
a  barrier  between  the  sexes.  Man  has  not  learned,  or 
has  forgotten,  the  heart-language.  What  a  need  for 
lovers !  If  one  could  look  into  the  secret  places  of  women, 
across  the  world's  table,  into  the  minds  of  women  who 
hate  and  are  restless,  and  whose  desires  rove;  even  into 
the  minds  of  those  who  actually  venture  beyond  the 
man-made  pale,  he  would  see  over  all  the  need  of  lovers ! 
.  .  .  Give  a  woman  love,  and  she  will  give  the  world 
lovers,  and  we  shall  have  brotherhood  singing  in  our 
ears.  .  .  .  David,  I  ask  you  only  to  look  at  the 
genius  born  of  woman,  in  and  out  of  wedlock,  during  the 
first  days  of  her  mating  with  a  man  whom  she  believes 
to  be  all  that  she  has  cried  out  for.  He  may  have  de 
stroyed  every  hope  afterward,  sacked  every  sanctuary, 
but,  if  she  trembled  close  to  her  great  happiness  in  the 
beginning,  the  child  of  such  a  beginning  has  glory  upon 
his  brow ! " 

Cairns  was  ready  to  see ;  ready  to  read  this  in  the 
history  of  men.  More  than  this,  he  was  ready  to  flood 
fresh  dawns  of  light  into  the  tired  eyes  of  Vina  Nettle- 
ton,  and  upon  her  pallor  make  roses  bloom.  Moreover, 
he  could  discern  in  her  an  immortal  artist,  the  conception 
of  which  changed  him  from  a  male  to  a  man. 

And   of   this   seeing   came   another   needed    concep- 


The  Singing  Distances  215 

tion :  that  intellectual  arrogance  is  the  true  modern  devil ; 
that  the  ancient  devil,  desire  of  flesh,  is  obvious,  banal, 
and  commonplace,  compared  to  this.  .  .  .  He  dared 
to  bring  his  realizations  to  a  woman,  and  found  that  she 
had  a  crown  for  each  and  every  one.  And  he  learned  to 
talk  to  her  about  things  vital  to  men  and  women,  and 
found  that  this  was  the  strangest,  grandest  and  most 
providential  hour  in  the  world — this  newest  hour. 

It  was  with  a  rich  and  encompassing  delight  that 
Cairns  discovered  Vina's  fineness,  endurance,  delicacy, 
and  intuition.  He  was  humble  before  her  spirit,  for  he 
had  become  sensitive  to  that  which  was  mystic  and  in 
effable.  He  saw  through  her,  a  sanction  and  authority 
for  his  own  future  years,  her  light  upon  the  work  he  must 
do.  The  animation  of  his  mind  in  her  presence  was 
pure  with  service.  And  Vina  awakened,  for  she  saw 
with  trembling,  what  is  a  miracle  to  a  modern  woman's 
eyes,  man's  delight  to  honor  that  which  is  most  truly 
woman's.  So  her  girlhood  crept  back. 

At  first  Vina  thought  he  was  using  her  for  a  study. 
They  had  long  been  friends ;  she  was  glad  to  be  of  assist 
ance;  so  he  was  free  to  come  and  go,  and  she  was  free 
with  him  as  only  an  old  comrade  can  be — one  who  expects 
nothing.  They  had  great  talks  about  Bedient ;  both  re 
vered  him,  and  were  grateful  for  his  coming.  And  Vina 
was  not  slow  to  see  the  change  in  David  Cairns ;  that  it 
was  in  nowise  momentary,  but  sound  and  structural.  She 
took  a  deep  interest  in  his  progress,  mothered  it,  made 
him  glad  to  show  her  its  phases. 

"Things  are  looking  so  differently  to  me,"  he  said, 
one  of  the  first  days.  "  It  makes  me  think  of  the  Ameri 
can  soldiers  I  met  the  first  time  afield — the  time  I  met 
Bedient.  I  praised  the  officers  for  their  own  home  papers. 
They  looked  so  big  and  thrilling  to  me,  as  men.  It  was 
easy.  I  remember  riding  with  a  cavalry  leader  one  rough 
day — a  long  day.  He  was  hard  and  still  with  courage. 


216  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

He  rolled  a  hundred  cigarettes  that  day.  I  thought  him 
the  genius  of  an  officer.  Then  I  saw  him  afterward 
over  here.  It  was  the  same  with  others.  They  seemed 
to  have  left  their  glory  out  there  among  the  swamps 
and  the  hills.  .  .  .  It's  the  same  way  with  the  things 
I  thought  before  Bedient  came.  ...  I  can  see  your 
things  a  lot  better." 

It  was  true,  he  could.  Vina  had  noted  that.  He 
could  sense  her  atmosphere,  and  divine  her  intents. 
Formerly,  he  had  taken  the  word  of  the  others  that  she 
had  power  for  her  work.  .  .  .  Almost  every  after 
noon  now  he  tapped  at  her  door.  Entering,  he  would 
take  a  seat  by  the  fire-frame,  stare  a  bit  at  the  city  or 
the  tower,  or  move  about  behind  her,  regarding  the 
freshly  done  work ;  and  presently  they  would  find  them 
selves  talking.  It  was  because  David  Cairns,  as  a  lover, 
was  out  of  the  question  from  her  point  of  view  in  the 
first  days,  that  such  a  splendid  companionship  was  estab 
lished.  He  did  not  know  that  a  woman  could  be  such  a 
companion ;  and  her  unconsciousness  of  his  deeper  quest, 
gave  her  an  ease  with  him,  that  was  one  of  the  secrets  of 
her  great  and  growing  charm. 

Heretofore,  all  feminine  aspirants  for  Cairns'  admira 
tion  had  ranged  themselves  in  his  mind  against  the 
paragon,  Beth  Truba  ( with  whom  he  had  long  comported 
himself  with  a  rueful  might-have-been  manner,  both 
pretty  and  pleasant).  Beth  had  easily  transcended. 
Whatever  was  great  and  desirable  in  woman  was  likely 
to  wear  a  Beth  Truba  hall-mark  for  his  observation. 
Now,  that  was  changed,  not  that  Beth  suffered  eclipse, 
nor  that  his  admiration  abated ;  indeed,  his  gratefulness 
for  that  word  of  Beth's  at  just  the  proper  moment,  which 
had  caused  him  gallantly  to  take  the  road  of  Vina  Nettle- 
ton,  was  a  rare  study ;  but  another  had  risen,  not  of 
Beth,  but  of  more  intimate  meaning  to  the  man,  David 
Cairns.  Beth's  great  force  of  feminine  energy  and  aspira 
tion,  he  had  been  unable  to  attract.  Beth  had  demanded 


The  Singing  Distances  217 

more  than  virtue  from  him,  and  at  a  time  when  he  was 
not  finished  enough  to  answer  her  many  restless  dreams. 

Cairns  and  Vina  Nettleton  had  in  reality  just  met, 
and  at  one  of  the  memorable  crossings  of  eternity.  To 
each,  the  other  had  just  been  brought  forth  from  a 
sumptuous  shadow  of  nature.  In  the  brighter  light  they 
discerned  each  other.  Cairns  was  first  to  see,  for  he  had 
been  told,  and  he  brought  to  the  meeting  all  the  fresh 
inspirations  of  his  maturity,  and  they  rested  upon  the 
solid  values  earned  through  a  life  of  hard-held  decency. 

Among  the  May  days  there  was  one  afternoon  in 
which  the  conception  of  summer  was  in  the  air.  It  was 
not  the  heat  alone,  but  the  stirring  of  the  year's  tremen 
dous  energy  everywhere,  even  under  pavements.  The 
warmth  of  creation  was  kindly  in  old  bones  and  old  walls, 
and  an  imperious  quickening  in  the  elastic  veins  of  youth. 
Vina  (half-way  up  a  step-ladder)  turned  about  and  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  steps.  Cairns  had  asked  her  what 
plans  she  had  for  the  summer. 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  be  a  great  way  from  New  York.  Maybe 
a  trip  or  two  over  to  my  beloved  Nantucket." 

This  started  her  to  thinking  and  presently  to  expatiat 
ing  upon  the  dearest  place  on  earth  to  her  mind.  .  .  . 
She  told  him  how  the  villagers  refused  to  have  mail- 
service,  as  it  threatened  to  destroy  one  of  the  important 
social  features  of  the  day,  that  of  going  to  the  post  office 
for  letters.  Also  he  was  informed  that  automobiles  were 
forbidden  in  Nantucket,  and  that  a  train  started  daily 
across  the  Island,  a  nine-mile  journey,  and  sometimes 
arrived.  The  conductor  and  engineer,  both  old  seamen, 
were  much  more  interested  in  a  change  of  weather,  a 
passing  ship,  or  a  school  of  fish,  than  in  the  immediate 
schedule  or  right  of  way.  .  .  .  And  Cairns  was  given 
another  glimpse  of  the  enchantress  that  had  been  hidden 
so  long  in  the  workaday  vesture  of  the  little  artist,  as  she 
unfolded : 

"  To  me,  there's  real  peace  and  silence  away  out  there 


218  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

in  the  sea.  Every  thought  is  a  picture.  .  .  .  You 
know  the  little  gray  shingle  houses  are  built  very  close 
together,  and  many  are  flush  with  the  sidewalk.  They 
don't  draw  the  shades  at  night,  and  everyone  uses  little 
muslin  curtains  which  conceal  nothing.  One  of  my  favor 
ite  things  to  do  is  to  walk  along  Pleasant  Street  to  Lily 
Lane,  or  through  Vestal  Street,  just  about  dusk,  and  see 
the  darling  interiors  of  the  spotless  cottages.  Not  really 
to  stop  nor  stare,  just  to  go  softly  and  slowly  by.  ... 
One  house  has  little  heads  around  the  tea-table  with 
father  and  mother ;  another  has  company  for  supper ;  and 
the  next — just  old  folks  are  left — but  all  so  radiant  as 
they  shine  out  through  the  old-fashioned  window-panes. 
.  .  .  To  have  one  of  those  places  for  one's  own !  It 
has  seemed  the  happiest  destiny  for  me,  but  only  for  the 
very  fortunate  and  elect  ...  I  wonder  if  they  ever 
know  of  the  night-birds  that  flutter  at  the  window-panes 
to  see  the  happiness  within?" 

Cairns  might  have  taken  this  very  lightly;  even  with 
a  reservation  that  she  knew  realities  did  not  fit  the  ideal ; 
that  such  realities  were  not  for  the  elect  always ; — but 
he  chose  to  regard  it  instead,  as  an  expression  of  Vina's 
yearning,  which  she  felt  safe  in  disclosing  for  the  sake 
of  the  ingenious  picture  she  made.  .  .  .  He  looked 
about  this  remarkable  studio  in  the  heart  of  New  York, 
where  a  really  great  task  was  being  wrought  to  endure. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  spirits  of  the  saints 
came  to  rest  in  this  place,  where  the  woman  worshipped 
them  through  her  work.  .  .  .  And  he  knew  she 
meant  much  that  she  said;  that  to  her,  work  was  not 
enough  of  the  breath  of  life.  .  .  .  She  had  not  com 
pleted  her  picture;  rather  life  had  not  completed  it  for 
her. 

Cairns  confided  in  Bedient  the  Nantucket  story,  and 
an  idea,  occurred  to  the  latter  that  delighted  him.  It  was 
one  of  the  evenings  when  they  dined  together  at  the  Club. 
.  .  .  Another  day,  Cairns  inquired  of  Vina  what  took 


The  Singing  Distances  219 

her  to  Nantucket  in  summer,  curious  as  to  the  material 
arrangement. 

"  My  own  people  used  to  go  there  summers  when  I 
was  a  little  thing,"  she  told  him,  "  and  of  late — there  are 
many  friends  who  ask  me  over." 

"  Say,  Vina,  when  you  get  over  to  Nantucket,  would 
you  be  terribly  disconcerted  to  discover  some  morning, 
down  among  the  wharves  there,  with  a  copy  of  Moby 
Dick,  and  a  distressed  look  from  deciding  whether  break 
fast  should  be  of  clam  or  cod  chowder — me?  " 

"  I  should  be  glad  of  all  things,"  she  said  with  quiet 
eagerness.  "  There  are  so  many  ways  to  pass  the 
hours " 

"  Besides  walking  in  Lily  Lane  in  the  dusk?" 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  There's  the  ride  over  the  open  moors. 
It's  like  Scotland  in  places,  with  no  division  or  fences, 
and  the  sea  away  off  in  all  directions.  Then,  we  must 
go  to  the  lighthouse,  one  of  the  most  important  of  Amer 
ica,  and  the  first  to  welcome  the  steamers  coming  in 
from  Europe.  And  the  Haunted  House  on  Moor's  End, 
the  Prince  Gardens  and  the  wonderful  old  water-front — 
where  I  am  to  discover  you — once  so  rich  and  important 
in  the  world,  now  forgotten  and  sunken  and  deserted, 
except  for  an  old  seasoned  sea  captain  here  and  there, 
smoking  about,  dreaming  as  you  imagine,  of  the  China 
trade  or  the  lordly  days  of  the  old  sperm  fishery,  and 
looking  wistfully  out  toward  the  last  port.  .  .  .  Ven 
ice  or  Nantucket — I  can  hardly  say  which  is  more  dream 
like  or  alluring,  or  sad  with  the  goneness  of  its  glory. 
.  .  .  I'd  love  to  show  you,  because  I  know  every  stick 
and  stone  on  the  Island,  and  many  of  its  quaint  people." 

"  And  when  do  you  think  you  will  go  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  David, — not  before  the  last  of  June. 
And  I  won't  be  able  to  stay  very  long  this  year,  because 
there  is  no  place  to  work  there.  I  ought  to  have  a  little 
change  and  rest,  but  I  can't  afford  to  '  run  down  '  entirely 
— just  enough  to  freshen  the  eye." 


220  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Cairns  nodded  seriously.     .     .     . 

A  day  or  two  afterward  he  brought  Bedient.  To  Vina 
he  was  like  some  tremendous  vibration  in  the  room.  Her 
mind  was  roused  as  if  by  some  great  music.  ...  It 
was  in  nothing  that  Bedient  had  said  or  looked,  yet  only 
a  little  while  after  the  two  men  had  gone,  Vina  realized 
she  had  a  lover  in  David  Cairns. 

She  was  dismayed,  filled  with  confusion  and  alarm, 
but  this  was  the  foreground  of  mind.  She  had  the  sense 
of  glad  singing  in  the  distances.  There  was  no  sleep  for 
hours  this  night,  though  of  late,  she  had  been  sleeping 
unusually  well.  .  .  .  Why  had  the  realization  been 
so  slow  in  coming?  An  answer  was  ready  enough:  Be 
cause  David  was  an  old  acquaintance.  But  another 
thought  came :  For  years,  except  in  rare  reactionary  hours, 
such  as  that  afternoon  in  Beth's  studio,  she  had  put  away 
the  thought  of  man  as  a  mate.  .  .  .  For  years,  she 
had  tried  to  become  a  block  instead  of  a  battery;  tried 
to  give  the  full  portion  of  her  life  to  the  thing  called 
work,  and  hated  herself  because  she  couldn't.  For  years 
she  had  dreaded  to  go  where  men  and  women  were,  be 
cause  the  rare  sight  of  human  happiness  brought  upon 
her  a  torrent  of  dreams.  The  emptiness  of  her  own  life, 
together  with  the  hatred  of  self,  because  she  could  not 
be  glad  for  the  simple  object  lesson  of  a  man  and  woman 
happy  in  each  other,  made  her  miserable  for  hours.  Late 
years  she  had  not  cared  if  she  looked  tacky.  "  What 
does  it  matter,"  she  would  ask,  with  a  hateful  glance  into 
the  glass,  "  when  at  best,  I  look  like  a  water-nymph  with 
hay-fever?"  ...  A  long  and  hard  fight,  but  she 
had  almost  broken  the  habit  of  thinking  what  she  might 
do  with  certain  prerogatives  of  women,  which  were  not 
granted  to  her.  A  bitter  fight,  and  only  she  knew  the 
hollowness  of  the  honors  her  good  work  had  brought.  It 
was  not  the  hard  work  that  had  left  her  at  the  end  of 
many  a  long  day — just  a  worn  bundle  of  sparking  nerve- 
ends. 


The  Singing  Distances 

And  yet,  this  was  the  creature  whom  the  new  David 
Cairns  had  come  to,  again  and  again  and  again.  This 
mighty  fact  arose  from  the  vortex  of  confusion  and 
alarm.  "Ah,  David,"  she  thought,  "is  it  not  too  late? 
Am  I  not  too  old  and  weathered  a  world-campaigner? 
...  I  am  old,  David.  Older  than  my  years.  Older 
even  than  I  look!  I  have  warred  so  long,  that  I  think 
all  peace  and  happiness  from  now  on  would  kill  me. 
Oh,  you  don't  want  me.  Surely  you  can't  want  me ! " 

But  there  were  sad  smilings  upon  the  hundred  hand- 
wrought  faces  in  the  room.  The  Marys,  the  Magdalens, 
and  the  Marthas  were  a  strangely  smiling  Sisterhood. 
.  .  .  "  Child,  you  have  been  faithful  in  the  little 
things,"  came  to  her.  "  You  have  thought  of  us  and 
wept  with  us  and  loved  us,  and  we  have  prevailed  to  bring 
you  happiness." 

And  so  the  other  side  of  the  picture — Vina  Nettleton's 
life  picture — now  turned.  The  "  Stations  "  were  like 
panels  of  fairies,  after  that.  All  the  hidden  shames  and 
secrets  of  the  years,  the  awful  sense  of  being  unwanted  at 
the  hearth  of  the  human  family,  were  taken  from  her, 
like  the  brittle  and  dusty  packings  from  a  glorious  urn. 
Some  marvel  of  freshness  sped  through  her  veins.  She 
was  not  as  yesterday — a  little  gray  shade  of  an  evil  dream. 
Yesterday,  and  all  the  yesterdays,  she  had  modelled  alone, 
poor  creatures  of  clay,  and  now  the  world  suddenly  called 
her  to  the  academy  of  immortals.  .  .  . 

Yes,  he  had  come.  He  was  brave  and  beloved.  .  .  . 
She  arose  and  knelt  in  the  dark  before  that  panel  of 
greatest  meaning — the  Gethsemane.  And  long  afterward, 
she  stood  by  the  open  window.  There  were  no  stars,  but 
the  tired  city  was  cut  in  light.  And  faint  sounds  reached 
her  from  below.  .  .  .  They  were  not  Jews  and 
Romans,  but  her  own  people,  rushing  to  and  fro  for  the 
happiness  she  had  found. 


TWENTY-SECOND   CHAPTER 

BETH  SIGNS  THE  PICTURE 

BEDIENT  walked  up  the  Avenue,  carrying  one  of  his 
small  leather-bound  books  to  Beth.  It  was  the  day  after 
the  call  of  the  Grey  One  there.  He  had  learned  to  give — 
which  may  be  made  an  exquisite  art — little  things  that 
forbade  refusal,  but  which  were  invested  with  cumulative 
values.  Thus  he  brought  many  of  his  rare  books  of  the 
world  to  the  studio.  In  them  she  came  upon  his  mar 
ginal  milestones,  and  girdled  them  with  her  own  pencil- 
lings.  So  their  inner  silences  were  broken,  and  they 
entered  the  concourse  of  the  elect  together. 

The  wonder  of  the  woman  rose  and  rose  in  his  mind. 
His  joy,  apart  from  her,  was  to  give  joy  to  others,  and 
so  he  had  moved  about  New  York  for  days  and  nights, 
reflecting  her  in  countless  ways.  When  he  thought  of  his 
money  at  all,  it  was  to  realize  with  curious  amazement 
that  there  was  quite  enough  for  anything  he  wished  to 
do.  Things  to  do  were  so  many  in  New  York,  that  num 
berless  times  each  day  he  sent  a  prayer  of  thankfulness 
to  Captain  Carreras,  always  with  a  warm  delight  in  the 
memory.  And  he  liked  to  think  it  was  Beth's  hand.  She 
had  told  him  of  her  pilgrimages  during  holiday  time  to 
the  infinite  centres  of  sorrow — and  it  became  a  kind  of 
dream  of  his — the  time  when  they  would  go  together,  not 
holidays  alone,  but  always.  The  great  fortune  slowly 
became  identified  in  his  mind  with  the  work  he  had  to 
do;  but  Equatoria,  the  base,  amusingly  enough,  sank 
away  into  vaster  remoteness. 

There  were  moments  in  which  Bedient  almost  be 
lieved  there  was  a  little  garden  of  his  planting  in  the 
heart  of  the  lustrous  lady;  moments,  even,  when  he 
thought  it  was  extending  broader  and  broader  upon  an 
arable  surface.  Again,  some  bitterness  from  the  world 
seemed  to  blast  the  young  growths — and  the  delicate 

222 


Beth  Signs  the  Picture 

fragrance  was  far-blown.  It  was  these  reactions,  and  his 
sensitiveness  to  the  beauty  of  the  romance,  which  put  off 
from  day  to  day  the  time  for  words. 

Two  or  three  days  before,  she  had  returned  from  a 
week-end  in  the  country,  and  more  than  ever  her  pres 
ence  was  an  inspiration.  She  must  have  been  keeping 
holy  vigils.  There  was  animation  in  her  hands,  a  note 
of  singing  in  her  laughter — the  dawn  of  June  in  her  eyes, 
the  fresh  loveliness  of  the  country  in  her  whole  presence. 
She  showed  him  that  Monday  morning,  how  good  it  was 
to  see  him  again — after  forty-eight  hours.  And  he  had 
gone  about  his  work  with  renewed  spirit — the  silent  siege. 
The  strength  of  youth  was  in  his  attentions,  but  the 
fineness  of  maturity,  as  well.  He  cultured  her  heart  as 
only  a  great  lover  could ;  but  being  the  lover,  he  was 
slow  to  see  the  blooms  that  answered. 

Only  of  words,  he  would  have  none  of  them  yet. 
Deeply  he  understood  that  she  had  been  terribly  hurt — 
long  ago  or  recently,  he  could  not  tell.  Could  the  story 
she  had  suggested  of  the  Grey  One's  lover  be  anything 
like  her  own?  .  .  .  Words — he  was  afraid.  Words 
often  break  the  sensitive  new-forming  tissues  over  old 
wounds  of  the  heart.  His  was  a  life-work,  to  heal  and 
expand  her  heart  to  hold  the  great  happiness.  .  .  . 

Beth  felt  herself  giving  away  secrets,  when  Bedient 
looked  at  her  early  this  afternoon.  He  glanced  as  usual 
into  her  face — but  then,  a  second  time.  She  followed 
his  eyes  an  instant  later  to  the  place  on  the  mantel,  where 
the  small  picture  of  the  Other  had  rested  for  just  one 
day.  He  started  to  ask  a  question,  but  she  took  the  little 
book,  and  thanking  him,  held  the  talk  to  it. 

Bedient  grappled  with  an  obstacle  he  could  not  master. 
In  the  silences  of  that  day,  something  different  fro*n  any 
thing  he  had  met  before,  closed  in  ;  a  new  order  of  atmos 
phere  thit  altered  the  very  tone  and  color  of  things. 
It  seemed  not  in  the  studio  alone,  but  in  the  world.  Be 
dient  fell  into  depths  of  thinking  before  it.  A  sudden 


224  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

turn  for  the  worst  in  a  well-established  convalescence, 
held  something  of  the  same  startling  confrontation. 
There  was  no  response  to  his  willing  it  away.  It  was 
fateful,  encompassing. 

Beth  moved  about  the  room,  not  ready  at  once  to  touch 
the  picture.  She  carried  the  little  book  in  her  hand. 
.  .  .  Strong  but  mild  winds  were  blowing.  Sudden 
gusts  fell  upon  the  skylight  with  the  sound  of  spray,  and 
sparrows  scurried  across  the  glass,  their  clawed  feet 
moving  swiftly  about  Mother  Nature's  business.  The 
East  ventilator  shook,  as  if  grimly  holding  on. 

"  A  day  like  this  always  touches  my  nerves,"  she 
said.  "  The  wind  seems  to  bring  a  great  loneliness  out 
of  the  sea." 

"  It's  pure  land  weather,"  he  answered,  "  damp, 
warm,  aimless  winds.  Now,  if  there  was  a  strong,  steady 
and  chill  East  wind " 

But  she  wouldn't  discuss  what  that  might  do.  "  Lone 
liness,"  she  repeated.  "  What  a  common  lot !  One 
scarcely  dares  stop  to  think  how  lonely  one  is.  ... 
How  many  people  do  you  know,  who  are  happily  com 
panioned?  I've  known  only  six  in  my  life,  and  two  of 
those  were  brother  and  sister.  It's  the  dull,  constant, 
ache  at  the  human  heart.  What's  the  reason,  do  you 
suppose  ?  " 

"  The  urge  to  completion " 

"  I  suppose  it  is,  and  almost  never  satisfied.  I  think 
I  should  train  children  first  and  last  for  the  stern  trials 
of  loneliness.  It's  almost  necessary  to  have  resources 
within  one's  self " 

"  But  how  wonderful  when  real  companions  catch  a 
glimpse  of  each  other  across  some  room  of  the  world ! " 
he  said  quietly. 

"  A  tragedy  more  often  than  not,"  she  finished.  "  One 
of  them  so  often  has  built  his  house,  and  must  abide. 
Real  companions  never  build  their  house  upon  the  ruins 
of  another." 


Beth  Signs  the  Picture  225 

"  That  has  a  sound  ring." 

"  What  is  the  reason  for  this  everywhere,  this  forever 
loneliness  ?  "  she  demanded,  without  lifting  her  eyes  from 
the  work. 

"  Something  must  drive,"  he  replied.  "  You  call  it 
loneliness  this  morning.  It's  as  good  as  any.  Great 
things  come  from  yearning.  People  of  the  crowd  choose 
each  other  at  random,  under  the  pressure  of  passionate 
loneliness.  Greater  hitman  hearts  vision  their  One.  Once 
in  a  while  the  One  appears  and  answers  the  need — and 
then  there  is  happiness.  There  is  nothing  quite  so 
important  as  the  happiness  in  each  other  of  two  great 
human  hearts.  Don't  you  see,  it  can  exist  hardly  a 
moment,  until  it  is  adjusted  to  all  time — until  its  relation 
to  eternity  is  firmly  established?  When  that  comes,  the 
world  has  another  beautiful  centre  of  pure  energy  to  look 
at  and  admire  and  aspire  to.  And  the  spirit  of  such  a 
union  never  dies,  but  goes  on  augmenting  until  it  becomes 
a  great  river  in  the  world. 

"  It  is  very  clear  to  me,"  he  went  on,  trying  to  fight 
the  shadows,  "  that  something  like  this  must  happen  be 
fore  great  world-forces  come  into  being.  First,  the  two 
happy  ones  learn  that  love  is  giving.  Their  love  goes  on 
and  on  into  a  bigger  thing  than  love  for  each  other,  and 
becomes  love  for  the  race.  That's  the  greater  glory. 
Avatars  have  that.  The  children  of  real  lovers  have  such 
a  chance  for  that  vaster  spirit!  Indeed,  you  can  almost 
always  trace  a  great  man's  lineage  back  to  some  lus 
trous  point  of  this  kind." 

Beth  regarded  him  deeply  for  a  moment.  She  could 
not  adjust  him  to  commonness.  She  was  suffering. 
Bedient  saw  only  the  mystic  light  of  that  suffering.  He 
had  never  loved  her  as  at  this  moment. 

"  I  always  wish  I  could  paint  you,  as  you  look  when 

you  are  thinking  about  such  things!"  she  said.     "Just 

as  you  looked  when  you  spoke  about  two  people  who  have 

illumined  each  other,  so  that  they  turn  their  great  anguish 

15 


226  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

of  loving  upon  the  race.     .     .     .     Yes,  I  see  it !  prophets 
might  indeed  come  from  that  kind  of  love." 

Beth  worked  with  uncommon  energy  for  many  min 
utes.  All-forgetting — time,  place,  tension  and  the  man 
near.  Her  spirit  was  strangely  sustained  under  his 
eyes.  The  work  flew,  and  left  little  traces  of  its  processes 
in  her  mind — her  concentration  was  deeper  than  memory. 

"  I'd  like  to  ride  with  you,"  he  said,  rising  to  leave. 

Beth  had  often  spoken  of  her  saddle-horse,  which 
of  late  had  been  kept  at  her  mother's  country  place. 
Bedient  rented  a  very  good  mount  in  New  York,  but  Beth 
remarked  that  her  own  had  spoiled  her  for  all  others, 
adding  that  he  would  say  so,  too,  if  he  could  see  Claren 
don,  the  famous  black  she  rode. 

"  I  can't  afford  to  keep  him  in  the  city  long  at  a  time," 
she  explained.  "  Oh,  it's  not  what  he  costs,  but  he's  a 
devourer  of  daylight.  ...  It  breaks  up  half  a  day 
to  get  to  the  stables  and  change  and  all,  and  I  haven't 
tried  to  ride  after  dark.  We  poor  paint  creatures  are 
so  dependent  upon  light  for  our  work.  .  .  .  And  yet 
riding  adds  to  good  health — just  the  right  sparkle  in  my 
case." 

"  And  that's  royalty,"  Bedient  declared. 

Beth  was  thinking.  He  had  spoken  of  riding  with  her 
before.  He  had  been  singularly  appealing  this  day. 
Trouble  had  filled  his  eyes  at  the  first  sight  of  her,  and 
she  had  felt  his  struggle  with  it.  ...  Her  mother 
had  asked  to  see  him,  but  there  wasn't  a  good  mate  for 
Clarendon  in  or  about  Dunstan,  where  her  home  was. 
.  .  .  She  was  so  worn,  mind  and  nerve  and  spirit, 
that  the  thought  of  a  long  ride  lured  strongly.  She 
knew  he  would  be  different.  Perhaps  he  might  show, 
beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  that  he  was  not  identified 
with  commonness.  .  .  .  He  might  bring  the  talk  to 
the  point  of — Beth  thrilled  at  this.  She  was  far  from 
ready,  and  yet  with  him  before  her,  Wordling  and  the 
sea  were  remote  and  soundless. 


Beth  Signs  the  Picture  227 

"  Could  you  get  the  good  rnare  you  ride — across  to 
Jersey?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said  eagerly.  "  I  could  send  a  man  over 
with  her — a  day  ahead." 

This  was  Thursday. 

"  I'll  ride  with  you  Saturday,"  she  said  finally.  "  You 
get  your  horse  over  to  Dunstan  Friday — to-morrow — and 
we'll  start  from  here  early  Saturday  morning.  A  day 
in  the  hills — and  supper  at  night  in  my  real  home !  " 

She  had  never  seen  him  so  pleased,  but  Beth  was  a 
little  startled  at  herself  when  she  considered  yesterday. 
.  .  .  He  was  always  so  different  when  he  came,  from 
the  creation  of  her  mind  when  alone,  and  the  doubts  flew 
in  and  out.  Then  the  little  sacred  book  he  had  brought — 
so  powerfully  fathomed  and  marked — it  was  like  bringing 
his  youth  to  her,  with  all  its  thoughts  and  wanderings. 
He  was  particularly  attractive  to  her  in  these  little  things, 
and  she  missed  not  a  phase  of  such  impulses.  He  de 
lighted  to  see  them  in  her  house,  he  said,  and  she  knew 
they  had  been  his  riches  in  the  years  of  loneliness  and 
wandering.  .  .  .  Far  back  in  her  faculties,  however, 
the  battle  was  furious  and  constant.  Every  faltering 
advance  of  faith  was  met  and  assailed. 

"  I  thank  you,"  he  said.  "  In  fact,  I  can't  thank  you. 
.  .  .  What  a  day  it  will  be  for  me  to  live  over.  .  .  . 
There's  a  little  thing  that  needs  doing.  It  will  take  me 
away  for  three  or  four  days  next  week." 

Beth  almost  laughed.  She  caught  the  laugh  of  mock 
ery  in  time.  The  ride  just  arranged  seized  and  held  her 
attention,  like  some  baleful  creature.  There  was  abomina 
tion  about  it,  to  her  thoughts — the  ease  with  which  he  had 
managed,  her  abject  softness.  .  .  .  She  was  trem 
bling  within,  all  her  resistance  settling,  straining,  like  a 
tree  before  the  final  stroke  of  the  axe.  Her  hands  trem 
bled  crazily  and  were  cold.  .  .  .  She  had  given  her 
word ;  yes,  they  would  ride  together.  She  could  not 
evade  his  eyes,  his  question,  if  she  refused  now.  .  .  . 
He  must  not  see  that  she  was  whipped.  .  .  .  But  she 


228  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

would  not  see  him  after  that.  He  could  not  come  back 
to  her  from  the  Wordling  arms.  She  would  not  see  him 
to-morrow.  But  the  picture 

She  had  turned  from  the  easel  to  her  desk,  and  was 
fumbling  with  papers  there,  her  back  turned  to  him.  A 
half  minute  had  passed  since  his  last  word.  .  .  .  One 
word  came  from  her: 

"Yes?" 

She  had  meant  it  to  sound  as  if  spoken  absently, 
as  if  she  were  preoccupied  in  search  for  a  certain  paper. 
Instead  it  was  an  eldritch  note  in  the  room,  like  the 
croak  of  an  evil  bird.  .  .  .  He  was  standing  near 
the  outer  door.  Something  of  her  tumult  must  have 
come  to  him,  she  thought,  for  his  voice  was  strangely 
altered  when  he  asked: 

"  Will  three  or  four  days  make  any  difference  about 
the  picture?" 

.  .  .  She  would  not  see  him  again.  He  could 
not  come  back  here  to-morrow  nor  afterward.  He  must 
go  away  now.  .  .  .  She  thought  of  her  wail  to  the 
Grey  One  that  he  would  not  go  to  the  ocean  with  Word- 
ling.  ...  It  meant  nothing  to  him;  she  could  not 
punish  him  by  keeping  him  away.  .  .  .  But  the  pict 
ure — that  final  inner  lustre.  It  had  come  to  her  this 
morning — what  havoc  in  the  memory — and  she  had  seen  it 
that  day  in  the  great  gallery  before  his  Race  Mother, 
but  had  been  unable  quite  to  hold  it  in  mind  until  the 
working  light  of  the  following  day.  .  .  .  She  must 
not  add  to  her  own  punishment,  after  all  her  care  and 
labor,  by  failing  in  the  last  touch.  And  yet  he  must  not 
come  again.  .  .  . 

"The  picture,  did  you  say?" 
•     He  repeated  his  question. 

"  Why,  the  picture  is  practically  done,"  she  said. 
"  I'll  sign  and  deliver  it  to-morrow.  I  think  it  will  get 
to  you  to-morrow.  The  long,  ridiculously  long,  prelimi 
nary  work  gave  me  the  modelling,  as  well  as  I  could  have 


Beth  Signs  the  Picture  229 

it.  ...  This  weather  makes  one  think  of  the  ocean 
or  the  mountains " 

She  had  forgotten  this  gray  day  of  winds.  Her  sen 
tence,  and  the  design  of  it,  had  been  founded  upon  the 
recent  run  of  superb  spring  days. 

"  There's  a  little  thing  that  needs  doing  by  the  ocean 
— that's  why  I  go."  His  words  seemed  to  come  from  a 
distance. 

"  It  would  not  do  for  you  to  look  at  the  picture  here. 
You'd  feel  expected  to  say  something  pretty — or  most 
would.  I  want  it  out  of  its  work-light,  then  you  can 
judge  and  send  it  back  if  it's  bad.  I'll  try  to  have  it  at 
the  Club  to-morrow.  .  .  .  You  did  not  know  this 
was  the  final  sitting,  did  you  ?  " 

She  was  talking  feverishly,  in  fear  of  his  questions. 
She  knew  it  must  sound  strange  and  unreasonable  to  his 
mind. 

"  No,"  he  said  gently.  "  You  always  surprise  me. 
And  the  ride — Saturday?*' 

"  Yes,  the  ride.     .     .     .     We  must  start " 

"Early?" 

"  Yes.  We'll  meet— at  the  Thirty-fourth  Street  boat 
— at  seven." 

"  I  thank  you.     And  good-by." 

There  was  something  amazing  to  her  in  his  capacity 
not  to  question.  In  her  weakness  she  was  grateful  almost 
to  tears.  She  would  not  show  him  her  hurt,  but  crossed 
the  room  hastily,  and  extended  her  hand  with  a  brave 
smile.  .  .  .  Listening,  she  heard  him  descend  the 
stairs.  .  .  .  Then  from  the  front  window,  she  saw 
him  reach  the  street,  turn  to  the  Avenue  and  mingle 
with  men. 

It  was  not  like  yesterday  in  the  little  room.  That 
agony  had  worn  her  too  much  for  another  such  crisis. 
.  .  .  The  thought  fascinated,  that  there  must  be  some 
hidden  meaning  to  the  queer  promise  she  had  been  im- 
oelled  to  make — to  ride  with  him  Saturday.  .  .  .  The 


230  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

parting,  his  instant  comprehension  of  some  mood  of  hers, 
in  which  words  had  no  place ;  his  sad  smile,  and  the  look 
of  gratitude  when  she  came  forward;  his  seeming  con 
tent  with  all  her  decisions ;  his  inability  to  question  or 
ask  favors — all  these  retained  a  remarkable  hold  upon 
her  imagination.  And  even  though,  to  her  eyes,  he  stood 
as  one  fallen,  there  was  poise  in  his  presence.  .  .  . 
Something  about  him  brought  back  her  dreams,  whether 
or  no,  with  all  their  ecstasy  and  dread.  Already  she  was 
thinking  of  him — as  one  gone ;  and  yet  the  studio  seemed 
mystic  with  his  comings  and  goings  and  gifts.  .  .  . 
It  came  to  her  how  her  lips  had  quivered  under  his 
eyes,  as  she  went  forward  to  say  good-by.  ...  It 
was  not  three  or  four  days,  but  "  good-by,"  indeed. 

Though  she  would  have  put  the  black  mark  of  misery 
upon  it,  this  was  one  of  the  greatest  of  Beth  Truba's 
days.  She  had  come  into  the  world  with  a  great  faith 
to  bestow — and  some  dreadful  punishment,  it  seemed, 
made  her  bear  it  alone.  It  had  long  ached  within  to  be 
given.  It  shamed  her  that  she  could  not.  With  all 
her  intellect,  all  her  world-habit  of  mind,  she  believed 
that  Andrew  Bedient  had  fallen  greatly — greatly,  because 
he  had  shown  himself  so  clean  and  wise.  She  granted 
to  herself  nothing  but  a  thrilling  admiration  for  him  in 
his  higher  moments,  but  still  she  was  associated  with  this 
fall,  because  she  had  permitted  him  to  come  to  her, 
almost  at  will.  And  she  had  not  been  enough  for  him — 
what  poison  in  that  thought! 

Yet,  the  unseen  Shadowy  Sister  endeavored  to  restore 
her  faith  again  and  again,  and  garland  the  Wanderer 
with  it.  ... 

Every  instant  of  passing  daylight  harried  her  with 
the  thought  of  the  work  yet  to  do.  It  might  prove  much 
— and  to-morrow — the  thought  came  with  heaviness  and 
darkening — the  portrait  must  go  to  him.  And  the  day 
after — he  would  go.  .  .  .  She  dreaded  to  look  at  the 


Beth  Signs  the  Picture  231 

picture  now.  Many  touches  of  love,  she  had  put  upon 
it.  Her  highest  thinking  it  had  called,  as  his  words 
had  done.  It  had  even  stimulated  her  to  an  old  dream 
of  really  great  work.  Beth  Truba  had  long  put  that 
away. 

The  rapt  look  in  his  eyes ;  the  rapt  smile  upon  his 
lips  when  he  spoke  of  his  great  theme;  just  to  paint  that, 
would  be  greatness.  Just  to  put  it  once  upon  the  canvas, 
that  would  be  enough.  It  would  show  that  she  had  seen 
more  than  man — deeper  than  flesh.  One  song,  one  pict 
ure,  one  book,  is  enough  for  any  artist.  She  had  always 
said  that.  .  .  . 

These  thoughts  stilled  and  softened  her  spirit — held 
her  moveless  in  the  centre  of  the  room;  but  again  the 
world  returned,  with  all  its  play  upon  her  finished  intelli 
gence.  .  .  .  He  had  not  found  her  sufficient  to  re 
strain  him  from  this  ocean  episode;  and  pride  uprose — 
a  vindictive  burning  that  scorched  full-length. 

"  He  is  very  brave  and  evolved,"  she  whispered  bit 
terly,  "  but  the  man  within  him  was  not  to  be  denied. 
.  .  .  Wordling  has  that.  .  .  .  God,  it  seems  as 
if  there  is  nothing  of  that — in  red-haired  Beth  Truba! 
.  .  .  No,  he  must  run  off  to  the  ocean,  quite  as  if  he 
had  been  a  poor,  impatient  boy,  like  the  Other !  " 

Her  face  crimsoned.  The  shame  and  agony  of  the 
thought  brought  her  to  her  knees  before  the  picture  she 
had  painted. 

"  And  perhaps  it  is  my  fault,"  she  whispered  desper 
ately.  "  Perhaps  I  have  asked  too  much,  and  waited  too 
long.  Perhaps  they  see — what  I  do  not — and  women  lie 
— and  I  only  think  I  feel !  Perhaps  I  am  weathered  and 
inflexible,  and  hard  and  old  and  cold,  and  they  know,  and 
become  afraid ! " 

But  there  was  stern  denial  in  the  face  before  her — 
reproach  in  the  eyes  she  had  made  of  paint.  ...  In 
her  terror  before  these  thoughts,  which  struck  home  in 
the  hour  of  her  weakness,  the  art  of  the  thing  suddenly 


232  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

prevailed — good  work,  the  valiant  rescuer.  .  .  .  She 
remembered  how  her  presence  had  aroused  the  giant  in 
the  Other.  Her  spell  had  done  that.  She  had  felt  the 
crush  of  his  arms,  and  queer  fires  had  laughed  across  her 
brain.  Then  she  fell  again  with  the  thought,  that  even 
that  had  not  sufficed.  Her  pride  had  sent  him  away 
even  after  that — his  laugh,  his  Greek  beauty,  his  passion 
and  all.  .  .  .  And  now  it  came  to  her  with  fierce 
reality,  that  should  the  Other  ever  return,  it  would  only 
make  these  later  hours  and  later  memories  burn  the 
deeper.  ...  A  temptation  came  to  hold  Bedient — • 
as  a  woman  could — to  keep  him  from  going  to  another 
woman,  but  her  eyes  fell  with  swift  shame  from  the 
picture. 

"  I  have  not  made  you  common — how  can  I  be  com 
mon  with  you?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  why  could  you  not 
always  remember  your  best,  you,  who  have  helped  others 
so?"' 

The  light,  though  gray,  was  still  strong.  Fixed  upon 
the  canvas,  as  she  had  never  seen  it  before,  was  a  revela 
tion  of  one  of  those  high  moments  which  had  exalted 
Vina  Nettleton,  and  changed  David  Cairns  in  the  whole 
order  of  his  being.  She  almost  listened  for  him  to  speak 
of  the  natural  greatness  of  women. 

"  But  you  are  forgetting  those  higher  moments,"  she 
whispered.  "  That's  the  way  with  men  and  boys — to  for 
get — to  run  away  for  the  little  things  beside  the 
ocean " 

But  the  face  denied;  the  face  was  of  purity.  It 
regarded  her  steadily  in  her  long  watching — a  fixture  of 
poise,  happiness  assured.  .  .  .  Then  (the  need  of 
haste  and  work,  left  deep  in  her  mind,  arose  to  the  sur 
face  with  a  strong  and  sudden  urging — the  delivery  to 
morrow.  Her  heart,  her  flesh,  her  soul,  all  were  at  war 
and  weary  unto  death.  It  was  hideous  to  attempt  to 
touch  it  again  that  day;  yet  to-morrow  an  evil  light 
.  .  .  and  now  came  the  full  realization  of  a  remarkable 
fact. 


Beth  Signs  the  Picture  233 

The  final  inner  lustre  was  there.  The  thing  she 
had  long  been  afraid  to  do,  save  in  the  exact  perfect  mo 
ment,  was  done.  That  Something  of  his  was  before  her, 
its  lifting  valor  not  to  be  denied.  .  .  . 

It  was  just  before  he  had  asked  her  to  ride,  she 
recalled  now.  An  elate  concentration  had  held  her  while 
she  painted.  She  had  not  spoken ;  she  had  hardly  known 
the  world  about  her.  It  had  been  too  big  to  leave  a  mem 
ory.  ...  It  was  done.  It  pleaded  for  him.  It  was 
like  the  Shadowy  Sister  pleading  for  him.  Swiftly, 
she  signed  the  work.  It  was  his. 

That  was  hard. 

...  In  the  veil  of  dusk  she  was  still  kneeling, 
her  face  ghastly  with  waiting.  .  .  .  And  not  until 
pride  intervened  again,  and  prevailed  upon  her  to  see 
him  no  more,  after  the  last  ride  together,  did  she  find 
some  old  friendly  tears,  almost  as  remote  from  the  days 
she  now  lived,  as  Florentine  springtimes  of  student 
memory. 


TWENTY-THIRD   CHAPTER 

THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

BEDIENT  arose  at  four  on  Saturday  morning  and 
looked  out  of  his  high  window.  June  had  come.  The 
smell  of  rain  was  not  in  the  air.  He  was  grateful  and 
drew  up  a  chair,  facing  the  East.  The  old  mystery  of 
morning  unfolded  over  sea,  and  there  was  no  blemish. 
.  .  .  Bedient  had  not  slept,  nor  during  the  two  pre 
ceding  nights.  While  the  abundance  of  his  strength  was 
not  abated,  deep  grooves  (that  came  to  abrupt  blind  end 
ings)  were  worn  in  his  mind  from  certain  thoughts,  and 
he  was  conscious  of  his  body,  which  may  be  the  begin 
ning  of  weariness;  conscious,  too,  of  a  tendency  of  his 
faculties  to  mark  time  over  little  things. 

Yesterday  the  picture  had  come.  He  had  hoped  hard 
against  this.  Its  coming  had  brought  to  him  a  sense  of 
separateness  from  the  studio,  that  he  tried  not  to  dwell 
upon  in  mind,  but  which  recurred  persistently.  .  .  .  He 
could  not  judge  a  portrait  of  himself;  yet  he  knew  this  was 
wonderful.  Beth  had  caught  him  in  an  animate  moment, 
and  fixed  him  there.  Her  fine  ideal  had  put  on  perma 
nence.  ..."  Hold  fast  to  a  soul-ideal  of  your 
friend,"  he  remembered  telling  her  once,  "  and  you  help 
him  to  build  himself  true  to  it.  If  your  ideal  is  rudely 
broken,  you  become  one  of  the  disintegrating  forces  at 
work  upon  him." 

He  keenly  felt  the  disorder  in  his  relation  to  Beth. 
The  thought  that  held  together,  against  all  others,  was 
that  Beth  loved  some  one,  just  now  out  of  her  world. 
He  wished  she  could  see  into  his  mind  about  this ;  in 
stantly,  he  would  have  helped  her;  his  dearest  labor,  to 
restore  her  happiness. 

He  had  never  been  confident  of  winning.  He  loved 
far  too  well,  and  held  Beth  too  high,  ever  to  become  famil- 

234 


The  Last  Ride  Together  235 

iar  in  his  thoughts  of  her  as  a  life  companion.  Power 
lived  in  her  presence  for  him;  great  struggles  and  con- 
querings.  He  loved  every  year  she  had  lived ;  every  hour 
of  life  that  had  brought  her  to  this  supremacy  of  woman 
hood  before  which  he  bowed,  was  precious  to  him.  In 
this  instance  he  was  myopic.  He  did  not  see  Beth  Truba 
as  other  women,  and  failed  to  realize  this.  His  penetra 
tion  faltered  before  her,  for  she  lived  and  moved  in  the 
brilliant  light  of  his  love,  blended  with  it,  so  that  her 
figure,  and  her  frailties,  lost  all  sharpness  of  contour. 

He  had  suffered  in  the  past  three  days  and  nights. 
He  was  proud  and  glad  to  suffer.  There  was  no  service 
nor  suffering  that  he  would  have  hesitated  to  accept  for 
Beth  Truba.  .  .  .  This  day  amazed  him  in  prospect, 
one  of  her  beautiful  gifts  to  him.  It  was  almost  as  if  she 
had  come  to  his  house,  lovely,  unafraid,  and  sat  laughing 
before  his  fire.  One  of  the  loftiest  emotions,  this  sense 
of  companionship  with  her.  There  was  something  of  dis 
tinct  loveliness  in  every  hour  they  had  passed  together. 
Not  one  of  their  fragrances  had  he  lost.  These  memories 
often  held  him,  like  mysterious  gardens. 

.  .  .  Bedient  paced  the  big  area  in  front  of  the 
ferry  entrance  long  before  seven.  He  saw  her  the  instant 
she  stepped  from  the  cross-town  car.  The  day  was  mo 
mentarily  brightening,  yet  something  of  the  early  morning 
red  was  about  her.  His  throat  tightened  at  sight  of  her 
radiant  swiftness.  Her  eyes  were  deeper,  her  lips  more 
than  ever  red.  .  .  .  On  the  deck  of  the  ferry,  before 
the  start,  she  said: 

"  I  feel  as  if  we  were  escaping  from  somewhere,  and 
could  not  tolerate  a  moment's  delay." 

.  .  .  At  ten  o'clock  they  were  in  the  saddle,  and 
Dunstan  was  far  behind.  The  morning,  as  perfect  as 
ever  arose  in  Northern  summer ;  the  azure  glorified  with 
golden  light,  and  off  to  the  South,  a  few  shining  counter-1 
panes  of  cloud  lay  still.  The  half  had  not  been  told  about 
Beth's  Clarendon,  a  huge  rounded  black,  with  a  head 


236  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

slightly  Roman,  and  every  movement  a  pose.  He  was 
skimp  of  mane  and  tail;  such  fine  grain  does  not  run  to 
hair.  While  there  was  sanity  and  breeding  in  his  steady 
black  eye,  every  look  and  motion  suggested  "  too  much 
horse  "  for  a  woman.  Yet  Beth  handled  him  superbly, 
and  from  a  side-saddle.  Clarendon  had  in  his  temper, 
thaC  gift  of  show  aristocrats — excess  of  life,  not  at  all 
to  be  confused  with  wickedness — which  finds  in  plain  out 
doors  and  decent  going,  plentiful  stimulus  for  top  en 
deavor  and  hot  excitement. 

"  I've  had  him  long,"  Beth  said,  "  and  though  he  has 
sprung  from  a  walk  to  a  trot  countless  times  without  a 
word  from  me,  he  has  yet  to  slow  down  of  his  own 
accord.  He  can  do  his  twelve  miles  an  hour,  and  turn 
around  and  do  it  back.  .  .  .  You  see  how  he  handles 
—for  me." 

She  delighted  in  his  show  qualities,  rarely  com 
bined  with  such  excellent  substance.  She  showed  his 
gaits,  but  rode  a  trot  by  preference.  Bedient,  who  had 
a  good  mare,  laughed  joyously  when  his  mount  was 
forced  into  a  run  to  keep  abreast.  Clarendon,  without 
the  slightest  show  of  strain,  had  settled  to  his  trot. 
.  .  .  All  Bedient's  thinking  and  imaging  during  the 
years  alone,  of  the  woman  he  should  some  time  find,  had 
never  brought  him  anything  so  thrilling  as  this  slightly 
flushed  profile  of  Beth's  now.  What  an  anchorage  of 
reality  she  was,  after  years  of  dream-stuff — a  crown  of 
discoveries,  no  less — and  what  an  honor,  her  gift  of 
companionship!  He  felt  an  expansion  of  power,  and 
strength  to  count  this  day  great  with  compensation, 
should  the  future  know  only  the  interminable  dull  aching 
of  absence  and  distance. 

Bedient  had  started  to  speak  of  the  picture,  but  she 
bade  him  wait.  ...  As  they  rode  along  a  country 
road,  they  came  to  an  old  ruin  of  a  farm-house,  sur 
rounded  by  huge  barns,  some  new,  and  all  in  good  repair. 
A  little  beyond  was  a  calf  tied  to  a  post.  It  was  lying 


The  Last  Ride  Together  237 

down,  its  legs  still  being  largely  experimental — a  pitifully 
new  calf,  shapeless  and  forlorn. 

The  mother  was  nowhere  around.  Sick  in  some  far 
meadow,  perhaps,  sick  of  making  milk  for  men. 

"  That's  a  veal  calf,"  Beth  said. 

The  note  in  her  voice  called  his  eyes.  Something 
which  the  sight  suggested  was  hateful  to  her.  Bedient  dis 
mounted  and  led  his  chestnut  mare  up  to  the  little  thing, 
which  stared,  tranced  in  hope  and  fear.  The  mare 
dropped  her  'muzzle  benignantly.  She  understood  and 
became  self-conscious  and  uncomfortable.  One  of  a 
group  of  children  near  the  farmhouse  behind  them  called  : 

"Show  off!  Show  off!" 

"They  sell  its  rightful  food,"  Beth  said,  "and  feed 
the  poor  little  thing  on  cheaper  stuff  until  it  hardens  for 
the  butcher.  Men  are  so  big  with  their  business." 

"  There  are  veal  calves  tied  to  so  many  posts  on  the 
world's  highway,"  Bedient  said  slowly. 

"  When  I  was  younger,"  Beth  went  on,  "  and  used  to 
read  about  the  men  who  had  done  great  creative  things, 
I  often  found  that  they  had  to  keep  away  from  men  and 
crowds,  lest  they  perish  from  much  pitying,  dissipate 
their  forces  in  wide,  aimless  outpourings  of  pity,  which 
men  and  the  systems  of  men  called  from  them.  Then — 
this  was  long  ago — I  used  to  think  this  a  silly  affectation, 
but  I  have  come  to  understand." 

"  Of  course,  you  would  come  to  understand,"  Bedient 
said. 

"  Men  who  do  great  things  are  much  alone,"  she 
continued.  "  They  become  sensitive  to  sights  and  sounds 
and  odors — they  are  so  alive,  even  physically.  The  down 
town  man  puts  on  an  armor.  He  must,  or  could  not  stay. 
The  world  seethes  with  agony — for  him  who  can  see." 

"  That  is  what  made  the  sacrifice  of  the  Christ,"  Be 
dient  declared.  "  Every  day — he  died  from  the  sights  on 
the  world's  highway " 

They  looked  back. 


238  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  It  was  not  the  Cross  and  the  Spear,  but  the  haggard 
agony  of  His  Face  that  night  on  Gethsemane  that  brings 
to  me  the  realization  of  the  greatness  of  His  suffering," 
he  added. 

"  And  the  disciples  were  too  sleepy  to  watch  and 
pray  with  him " 

"  How  gladly  would  the  women  have  answered  His 
need  for  human  companionship  that  night ! "  he  ex 
claimed.  "  But  it  was  not  so  ordained.  It  was  His  hour 
alone,  the  most  pregnant  hour  in  the  world's  history." 

They  reached  the  crest  of  a  fine  hill  at  noon,  and  dis 
mounted  in  the  shade  of  three  big  elms.  They  could  see 
small  towns  in  the  valley  distances,  and  the  profile  of  hill 
top  groves  against  the  sky.  The  slopes  of  the  hill  wore 
the  fresh  green  of  June  pasture  lands;  and  three  colts 
trotted  up  to  the  fence,  nickering  as  they  came.  .  .  . 
Beth  was  staring  away  Westward  through  the  glorious 
light.  Bedient  came  close  to  her;  she  felt  his  eyes  upon 
her  face,  turned  and  looked  steadily  into  them.  She  was 
the  first  to  look  down.  Beth  had  never  seen  his  eyes  in 
such  strong  light,  nor  such  power  of  control,  such  seren 
ity,  such  a  look  of  inflexible  integrity.  .  .  .  She  did 
not  like  that  control.  It  was  not  designed  in  the  least  to 
take  away  the  hate  and  burning  which  for  three  days  had 
warred  against  the  best  resistance  of  her  mind. 

That  cool  lofty  gaze  was  her  portion.  Another — on 
the  shore — ignited  the  fires.  A  devil  within — for  days 
and  nights — had  goaded  her :  "  Yes,  Beth  Truba,  red 
haired  and  all  that,  but  old  and  cold,  just  the  same,  and 
strange  to  men." 

"  I've  wanted  this  day,"  he  said.  "  It  was  some  need 
deeper  than  impulse.  I  wanted  it  just  this  way:  A  hill 
like  this,  shade  of  great  trees  that  whispered,  distant 
towns  and  woods,  horses  neighing  to  ours.  Something 
more  ancient  and  authoritative  than  the  thing  we  call 
Memory,  demanded  it  this  way.  Why,  I  believe  we  have 
stood  together  before." 


The  Last  Ride  Together  239 

Beth  smiled,  for  the  goading  devil  had  just  whispered 
to  her,  "  You  were  a  vestal  virgin  doubtless — oh,  severely 
chaste !"  .  .  .  She  said,  "  You  believe  then  we  have 
come  up  through  '  a  cycle  of  Cathay'  ?" 

"  If  I  had  heard  your  name,  just  your  name,  over 
there  in  India,"  he  replied  thoughtfully,  "  it  would  have 
had  some  deep  meaning  for  me." 

"  The  '  cycle  of  Cathay  '  wasn't  enough  to  cure  you  ?  " 

He  turned  quickly,  but  didn't  smile.  "  I  think  there 
was  always  some  distance  between  us,  that  we  were  never 
equal,  a  difference  like  that  between  Clarendon  and  the 
chestnut.  Only  you  were  always  above  me,  and  it  was 
the  better,  the  right  way.  Beth " 

She  looked  up. 

"  Is  there  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  tell  you  how 
great  you  are  to  me — just  that — asking  nothing?" 

"  We  are  both  grown-ups,"  she  answered  readily. 
"  You  won't  mind  if  I  find  it  rather  hard  to  believe — I 
mean,  my  greatness.  You  like  my  riding  and  the  por 
trait " 

"  I  can  judge  your  riding.  As  for  the  picture,  it  is 
an  inspiration,  though  I  cannot  judge  that  so  well.  But 
it  is  not  those " 

"  And  what  then,  pray  ?  " 

"  Beth  Truba." 

"  A  tired  old  artist  whom  nobody  knows — really." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  that,"  he  declared  earnestly. 
"  There  is  nothing  alive  this  moment,  nothing  in  the 
great  sun's  light,  that  has  put  on  such  a  glory  of  matur 
ity.  Why,  you  are  concentrated  sunlight — to  me !  " 

"  That's  very  pretty,"  she  said,  and  turned  a  glance 
into  his  eyes.  .  .  .  The  same  cool  deeps  were  there, 
though  his  face  held  a  singular  happiness.  She  won 
dered  if  it  were  because  she  had  not  forbade  him  to  speak. 
Did  he  think  she  was  ready,  and  that  her  heart  was  free  ? 

There  was  no  one  on  the  sloping  hill-road,  either  to 
the  right  or  left,  and  only  the  colts  in  the  meadows. 


240  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

A  good  free  thing — this  elimination  of  human  beings — 
though  at  this  height,  they  stood  in  the  very  eye  of  the 
country-side.  The  chestnut  mare  was  cropping  the  young 
grass  by  the  edge  of  the  highway,  but  there  were  matters 
for  Clarendon  to  understand — far  distances  and  move 
ments  not  for  human  eyes.  The  colts  racing  up  and  down 
the  hill-fence  were  beneath  his  notice.  The  great  arched 
neck  was  lifted  for  far  gazing  and  listening,  and  that 
which  came  to  his  foreign  senses,  caused  him  to  snort 
softly  from  time  to  time.  .  .  . 

Beth  rode  without  hat.  Her  arms  were  bare  to  the 
elbows;  her  gray  silk  waist  open  at  the  throat.  She 
stretched  out  her  arms,  and  the  sunlight,  cut  by  the  high 
elm  boughs,  fell  upon  her  like  a  robe,  woven  of  shim- 
merings.  She  seemed  to  want  her  full  portion  of  vitality 
from  the  great  upbuilding  day. 

"  It's  strong  medicine — this  high  noon  of  June,"  she 
said.  "  One  feels  like  unfolding  as  flowers  do." 

And  then  came  over  him — over  all  his  senses — some 
thing  flower-like  in  scent,  yet  having  to  do  with  no  par 
ticular  flower.  It  dilated  his  nostrils,  but  more  than  that, 
all  his  senses  awoke  to  the  strange  charm  of  it.  .  .  . 
The  distance  between  them  was  gone  that  instant. 
Though  it  may  have  endured  for  ages  and  ages,  it  was 
gone.  He  had  overtaken  her.  ...  A  haunting  in 
fluence  ;  and  yet  of  magic  authority !  Was  it  the  perfume 
of  the  lotos  and  the  bees?  It  was  more  than  that.  It 
was  the  sublimate  of  all  his  bewitchings — chaste  moun 
tains,  dawns,  the  morning  glow  upon  great  heights,  the 
flock  of  flying  swans  red  with  daybreak ;  more  still,  all 
the  petals  of  the  Adelaide  passion  restored  in  one  drop 
of  fragrance,  and  lifted,  a  different  fragrance,  the  essence 
of  a  miracle !  This  was  the  perfume  that  came  from  her 
life,  from  her  arms  and  throat  and  red  mouth.  .  .  . 

It  was  new  out  of  the  years.  All  his  strangely  guarded 
strength  arose  suddenly  animate.  A  forgotten  self  had 
come  back  to  him,  all  fresh  and  princely  out  of  long  en- 


The  Last  Ride  Together  241 

chantment.  .  .  .  And  there  she  stood  with  face 
averted  awaiting  this  Return!  .  .  .  This  was  the 
mysterious  prince  who  had  wrought  in  darkness  so  long, 
the  source  of  his  dreams  of  woman's  greatness,  the  energy 
that  had  driven  and  held  him  true  to  his  ideals,  the  struct 
ure  into  which  his  spiritual  life  had  been  builded  (was 
this  the  world's  mighty  illusion  possessing  him?),  and 
now  the  prince  had  come,  asking  for  his  own.  .  .  . 
And  she  was  there,  stretching  out  her  arms. 

Mighty  forces  awoke  from  sleep.  They  were  not  of 
his  mind,  but  deep  resolutions  of  all  his  life,  forces  of 
her  own  inspiring  which  she  must  gladly,  gloriously 
obey.  Was  it  not  her  love  token,  this  electric  power,  as 
truly  as  his  mind's  ardor  and  his  spiritual  reverence? 
.  .  .  The  miracle  of  her  life's  fragrance  held  him. 
.  .  .  Even  desire  was  beautiful  in  a  love  like  this. 
All  nature  trembles  for  the  issue,  when  love  such  as  his 
perceives  the  ripe  red  fruit  of  a  woman's  lips.  .  .  . 
But  better  far  not  to  know  it  at  all,  than  to  know  the  half. 

And  Beth  was  thinking  of  the  cool  depths  in  his  eyes 
a  moment  before,  and  of  his  words,  "  asking  nothing." 
.  .  .  "  Why  asks  he  nothing  of  me?  .  .  .  Because 
I  am  old  and  cold."  .  .  .  Some  terrific  magnetism 
filled  her  suddenly,  as  if  she  had  drawn  vitality  from 
great  spaces  of  sunlight,  and  some  flaming  thing  from 
the  huge  hot  strength  of  Clarendon.  .  .  .  And  now 
the  goading  devil  whispered : 

"  With  another  he  would  not  ask,  he  would  take ! 
Only  you — you  do  not  attract  great  passions.  The  source 
of  such  attraction  is  gone  from  you.  Mental  interests 
and  spiritual  ideals  are  your  sphere!  .  .  .  Second- 
rate  women  whistle  and  the  giants  come!  They  know 
the  lovers  in  men.  You  know  the  sedate  mental  gardeners 
and  the  tepid  priests.  How  you  worship  that  still,  cool 
gazing  in  the  eyes  of  men !  Books  and  pictures  are  quite 
enough — for  your  adventures  in  passion.  In  them,  you 
16 


242  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

meet  your  great  lovers — of  other  women.  You  are  Beth 
Truba  of  street  and  studio.  You  can  send  lovers  away. 
You  can  make  them  afraid  of  your  tongue,  strip  them  of 
all  ardor  with  your  nineteenth  century  bigotry.  .  .  . 
You  have  so  many  years  to  waste.  Empty  arms  are  so 
light  and  cool,  their  veins  are  never  scorched ;  they  never 
dry  with  age!  .  .  .  Oh,  red-haired  Beth  Truba,  all 
the  spaces  of  sky  are  laughing  at  you!  To-morrow  or 
next  day,  by  the  ocean,  another  woman  will  start  the 
flames  in  those  cool  eyes  of  his,  and  feel  them  singing 
around  her!  .  .  .  Why  do  you  let  him  go?  Only  a 
nineteenth  century  mind  with  the  ideas  of  a  slave  woman 
would  let  him  go!  .  .  .  Keep  him  with  you.  Show 
your  power.  Create  the  giant.  By  no  means  is  that  the 
least  of  woman's  work ! " 

She  shuddered  at  such  a  descent. 

"  Would  you  go  back  and  be  the  waiting  spider  for 
ever  in  the  yellow-brown  studio,  breaking  your  heart  in 
the  little  room  when  some  woman  chooses  to  bring  you 
news  of  men  and  the  world  ?  You  would  not  descend  to 
woman's  purest  prerogative?  .  .  .  Greater  women 
than  you  shall  come,  and  they  shall  avail  themselves  of 
that,  and  their  children  shall  be  great  in  the  land.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  what  a  world,  and  what  a  fool ! "  Beth  said 
aloud. 

"Why?" 

She  turned  at  his  quick,  imperious  tone. 

"  I  don't — I  don't  know.    It  just  came!  " 

Beth  bit  her  lip,  and  shut  her  eyes.  There  was  a 
booming  in  her  brain,  as  from  cataracts  and  rapids.  His 
face  had  made  her  suddenly  weak,  but  there  was  some 
thing  glorious  in  being  carried  along  in  this  wild  current. 
She  had  battled  so  long.  She  was  no  longer  herself,  but 
part  of  him.  The  face  she  had  seen  was  white ;  the  eyes 
dark  and  piercing,  terrible  in  their  concentration  of  power, 
but  not  terrible  to  her.  All  the  magic  from  the  sunlight 
had  come  to  them.  They  were  the  eyes  which  command 


The  Last  Ride  Together  243 

brute  matter.  .  .  .  The  Other  had  become  a  giant; 
this  man  a  god. 

"  What  a  day !  "  she  whispered. 

"  Let's  ride  on !  "  he  said  swiftly. 

.  .  .  The  horses  whirled  about  at  his  word.  As 
his  hand  touched  hers,  she  felt  the  thrill  of  it,  in  her  limbs 
and  scalp.  He  lifted  her  to  the  saddle.  There  was  some 
thing  invincible  in  his  arms.  The  strength  he  used  was 
nothing  compared  to  that  which  was  reserved.  .  .  . 

She  seemed  the  plaything  of  some  furious,  reckless 
happiness.  ..."  Asking  nothing !  Asking  noth 
ing  ! "  repeated  again  and  again  in  her  brain.  And  what 
should  he  ask — and  why?  .  .  .  Her  thoughts  flew 
by  and  upward — intent,  but  swift  to  vanish,  like  bees  in 
high  noon.  Atoms  of  concentrated  sunlight,  sun-gold 
upon  their  wings.  .  .  .  The  good  hot  sun,  all  the 
earth  stretched  out  for  it,  and  giving  forth  green  trib 
utes.  The  newest  leaf  and  the  oldest  tree  alike  expanded 
with  praise.  .  .  .  What  a  splendor  to  be  out  of  the 
city  and  the  paint  and  the  tragedy ;  to  have  in  her  veins 
the  warm  brown  earth  and  the  good  hot  sun — and  this 
mighty  dynamo  beneath !  She  was  mad  with  it  all,  and 
glad  it  was  so. 

Beth  raised  her  eyes  to  the  dazzling  vault.  One 
cannot  sit  a  horse  so — well.  She  lost  the  rhythm  of  her 
posting,  but  loved  the  roughness  of  it.  The  heights 
thralled  her.  Up,  up,  into  the  blue  and  gold,  she  trem 
bled  with  the  ecstasy  of  the  thought,  like  the  bee  prin 
cess  in  nuptial  flight — a  June  day  like  this — up,  up,  until 
the  followers  had  fallen  back — all  but  two — all  but  one — 
which  one  ?  .  .  .  There  was  a  slight  pull  at  her  skirt. 
She  turned. 

He  was  laughing.  His  hand  held  a  fold  of  her  dress 
against  the  cantle  of  the  saddle.  She  could  not  have  fallen 
on  the  far  side,  and  he  was  on  this.  ...  A  sudden 
plunge  of  a  mount  would  unseat  any  rider,  staring 
straight  up.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  was  there !  .  .  .  How 


244  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

different  the  world  looked — with  him  there.  She  had  rid 
den  alone  so  long.  She  dared  to  look  at  him  again. 

His  eyes  were  fastened  ahead.  Could  it  be  illusion — 
their  fiery  intentness?  She  followed  his  glance.  .  .  . 
The  big  woods — she  knew  them,  had  ridden  by  them  many 
times — how  deep  and  green  they  looked!  .  .  .  But 
what  was  the  meaning  of  that  set,  inexorable  line  of  his 
profile?  What  was  he  battling?  That  was  her  word, 
her  portion.  For  hours,  days,  years  she  had  been  bat 
tling,  but  not  now !  No  longer  would  she  be  one  of  the 
veal  calves  tied  to  a  post  on  the  world's  highway,  to 
consume  the  pity  of  poor  avatars !  .  .  .  Avatars — 
the  word  changed  the  whole  order  of  her  thoughts ;  and 
those  which  came  were  not  like  hers,  but  reckless  ventures 
on  forbidden  ground ;  and,  too,  there  was  zest  in  the  very 
foreignness  of  the  thoughts :  Avatars — did  they  not  spring 
into  being  from  such  instants  as  this — high  noon,  vitality 
rising  to  the  sun,  all  earth  in  the  stillness  of  creation ;  and 
above,  blue  and  gold,  millions  and  millions  of  leagues 
of  sheer  happiness;  and  behind — put  far  behind  for  the 
hour — all  crawling  and  contending  creatures.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  yellow-brown  studio  would  not  remain 
behind,  but  swept  clearly  into  her  thinking.  Something 
was  queer  about  it.  Yes,  the  havoc  of  loneliness  and  suf 
fering  was  gone.  .  .  .  And  there  seemed  a  rustling 
in  the  far  shadows  of  the  little  room.  Could  it  be  the 
Shadowy  Sister  returning?  And  that  instant,  with  a 
realism  that  haunted  her  for  years,  there  came — to  her 
human  or  psychic  sense,  she  could  never  tell — a  tiny 
cry!  .  .  .  Beth  almost  swooned.  His  hand  sus 
tained  .  .  .  and  then  she  saw  again  his  laughing 
face;  all  the  intensity  gone.  It  was  carved  of  sunlight. 
Everything  was  sunlight. 

Beth  spoke  to  Clarendon.  She  would  ride — show  him, 
she  needed  no  hand  in  riding.  The  great  beast  settled 
down  to  his  famous  trot,  pulling  the  chestnut  mare  to  a 


The  Last  Ride  Together  245 

run.  Clarendon  was  steady  as  a  car;  the  faster  his  trot, 
the  easier  to  ride.  .  .  .  She  turned  and  watched  this 
magician  beside  her;  his  bridle-arm  lifted,  the  leather 
held  lightly  as  a  pencil ;  laughing,  asking  nothing,  needing 
not  to  ask.  And  she  was  unafraid,  rejoicing  in  his  power. 
All  fear  and  slavishness  and  rebellion,  all  that  was  bleak 
and  nineteenth  century,  far  behind.  This  was  the  Rous 
ing  Modern  Hour — her  high  day. 

Nearer  and  nearer — the  big  woods.  .  .  .  She  was 
thinking  of  a  wonderful  little  path  ahead.  She  had  never 
ventured  in  alone,  a  deep,  leafy  foothpath,  soft  with  moss 
and  fern-embroidered.  .  .  .  There  was  no  one  on  the 
road  ahead,  nor  behind ;  only  young  corn  in  the  sloping 
field  on  the  left,  and  now  the  big  woods  closed  in  on  the 
right,  and  Beth  reined  a  little. 

There  was  no  shade  upon  the  highway,  even  with  the 
wood  at  hand.  The  horses  were  trampling  their  own 
shadows  in  this  zenith  hour.  .  .  .  She  watched  his 
eye  quicken  as  he  noted  the  little  path. 

"  Ah — let's  go  in !"  he  called,  pulling  up. 

It  was  her  thought.  "  I've  always  wanted  to,  but 
never  dared,  alone/'  she  panted,  bringing  Clarendon 
down. 

Bedient  dismounted,  pulled  the  reins  over  the  mare's 
head  and  through  his  arm ;  then  held  up  both  hands  to 
her.  .  .  .  Something  made  her  hesitate  a  second. 
He  did  not  seem  to  consider  her  faltering. 

"  Oh,  Beth,  why  should  we  rush  in  there,  as  if  we 
were  afraid  of  the  light  ?  .  .  .  Come !  " 

She  knew  by  his  eyes  what  would  happen;  and  yet 
she  leaned  forward,  until  his  hands  fitted  under  her  arms, 
and  her  eyelids  dropped  against  the  blinding  light.  .  .;  ,. 

"  It  had  to  be  in  the  great  sunlight — that!  .  .  . 
How  glorious  you  are !  " 

"  Please    .     .     .    put  me  down !  " 

But  again,  he  kissed  her  mouth,  and  the  shut  eyelids. 


246  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

And  when  her  feet  at  last  touched  the  earth,  he  caught 
her  up  again,  because  her  figure  swayed  a  little, — and 
laughed  and  kissed  her — until  the  fainting  passed.  .  .  . 

"...  And — these — were — the — great — things — 
you  asked  permission  to  tell  me  ?  "  she  said  slowly,  with 
out  raising  her  eyes. 

The  strange  smile  on  her  scarlet  lips,  and  the 
lustrous  pallor  of  her  face,  so  wonderfully  prevailed, 
that  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  again.  And  they  were 
quite  alone  in  that  mighty  light,  as  if  they  had  penetrated 
dragons-deep  in  an  enchanted  forest. 

"  I  cannot  help  it.  You  are  stronger ! "  she  said  in 
the  same  trailing,  faery  tone.  ..."  And  that  dis 
tance — between  us — that  you  always  felt — in  '  the  cycle 
of  Cathay  ' — you  seem  to  have  overcome  that " 

"  It  was  another  century " 

"  Oh " 

"  And  now  to  explore  the  wood !  " 

"  But  the  horses,  sir " 

"  They  will  stand." 

.  .  .  She  would  not  let  him  help,  but  loosened 
Clarendon's  bridle,  and  slipping  out  the  bit,  put  the  head- 
straps  back.  Bedient  shook  his  head. 

"  It  may  slide  askew  that  way,  and  worry  him  more 
than  if  the  bit  were  in,"  he  said. 

"  If  you  command,  I  shall  put  it  back." 

"  Let  me." 

"  No." 

Smiling,  he  watched  her.  The  frail  left  hand  parted 
the  huge  foamy  jaws,  and  held  them  apart — thumb  and 
little  finger — while  the  other  hand,  behind  Clarendon's 
ears,  drew  the  bit  home.  The  big  fellow  decently  bowed 
his  head  to  take  the  steel  from  her.  Then  she  patted  the 
mouse-colored  muzzle,  and  gave  the  reins  to  the  man, 
who,  much  marvelling,  tethered  the  two  horses  together. 

Then  they  set  forth  into  the  wood. 


TWENTY-FOURTH   CHAPTER 

A  PARABLE  OF  TWO   HORSES 

THEY  were  nearing  Dunstan  on  the  way  back.  The 
light  had  flattened  out,  and  the  little  town  was  stretching 
its  shadows.  They  were  silent.  .  .  .  Beth  was  trying 
to  fit  this  day  to  days  that  had  gone,  but  it  was  hard. 
This  had  a  brightness  apart  from  them,  but  it  seemed  to 
her  now  that  the  brightness  was  gone  with  the  sun.  She 
was  tired — and  alone.  The  thoughts  in  her  mind  had 
brought  the  sense  of  separateness. 

She  must  soon  know  from  him,  if  the  day  had  served 
her  end.  She  thought  of  her  temptation  in  the  studio — 
to  hold  him  from  the  ocean,  as  a  woman  might,  as  a 
Wordling  might.  She  had  not  needed  quite  to  do  that, 
merely  to  let  herself  go.  The  glorious  lover  in  him  had 
done  more  than  she  dreamed,  in  making  her  Beth  of  the 
bestowals,  this  day. 

In  the  sunlight,  she  had  been  one  with  him.  Rather 
startlingly  it  came  to  her  now,  that  she  could  have  asked 
anything  then.  But  in  those  incomparable  moments  of 
the  high  day,  there  had  been  nothing  to  ask.  How  strange 
this  was  to  her !  How  utterly  had  they  put  all  common 
ness  behind. 

She  trembled  at  the  thought  of  another  woman  rous 
ing  that  lover  in  him,  looking  upon  the  miracle  she  had 
evoked.  She  could  not  bear  it,  nor  could  she  suffer  him 
to  know  this  thought  of  hers. 

They  were  riding  down  into  the  town.  Brightenings 
from  the  West  were  still  upon  the  upper  foliage  of  the 
trees,  but  vague  dusk  had  fallen  between  their  faces.  His 
features  were  white  and  haggard.  .  .  .  She  was  afraid 
to  ask  him  now.  She  would  wait  for  the  darkness.  Had 
he  heard  a  tremble  in  her  voice,  Bedient  would  have 
caught  her  bridle-rein  and  searched  her  face. 

247 


248  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

She  clucked.  Clarendon,  with  stables  just  ahead, 
was  only  too  eager.  .  .  .  Bedient  rejoined  her  after 
turning  over  his  horse,  and  making  the  change  of  clothes. 
Beth  met  him  at  the  gate  of  her  mother's  house  and  there 
was  a  smile  in  the  evening  light. 

They  did  not  sit  opposite  at  supper.  Bedient  studied 
the  little  mother  at  the  head  of  the  table,  but  with  a  fear 
in  his  heart.  A  sense  of  disaster  had  come  to  him  at  the 
end  of  the  ride.  He  knew  nothing  of  what  had  formed 
about  the  short  sea  journey  in  Beth's  mind ;  he  could  not 
have  believed  from  her  own  lips  that  she  had  been  tempted 
to  hold  him  with  passion.  He  would  have  expected  faith 
from  her,  had  some  destroying  tale  come  to  her  ears.  He 
did  not  realize  the  effect  upon  others,  of  his  aptness  to 
ignore  all  explanation.  Especially  in  this  seagoing  affair, 
he  had  nothing  to  say.  It  was  not  his  way  to  discuss  his 
adventures  into  the  happiness  of  others.  .  .  .  Beth 
felt  his  reserve  instinctively,  a  icason  why  it  had  been 
impossible  for  her  to  show  him  the  document  of  disorder. 

The  talk  at  the  supper  table  had  to  do  with  the  por 
trait  she  had  painted.  Beth  never  forgot  some  of  Be- 
dient's  sentences.  .  .  .  Then  she  told  him  about  the 
new  life  of  the  Grey  One ;  of  the  latter's  call  on  Wednes 
day,  with  the  great  news  about  Torvin,  and  of  the  tele 
phone  message  yesterday. 

"  More  buyers  have  been  to  her  studio,"  Beth  said. 
"  You  see,  Torvin  can  do  anything.  A  whisper  from 
him  and  they  buy.  The  Grey  One  has  disposed  of  several 
of  her  little  things  at  her  vogue  prices " 

"  I'm  glad,"  said  Bedient. 

"  It  came  in  the  nick  of  time.  It  means  mor  e  than 
money  or  pictures.  Margie  Grey  has  won  her  race." 

"  I  understand,"  he  added. 

After  supper,  they  walked  together  outside.  With 
her  whole  heart  Beth  prayed  that  the  day  had  changed 
him  from  going.  She  had  put  off  until  the  last  moment 
any  talk  that  would  bring  his  answer.  And  now  walking 


A  Parable  of  Two  Horses  249 

with  him  in  the  darkness,  she  thought  strangely  of  her 
parting  with  the  Other.  All  was  forgotten  save  that 
moment  of  parting;  all  the  old  intimacies  had  dropped 
from  mind,  banished  by  the  sunlit  god  she  had  met  this 
day.  .  .  .  Bedient's  defect  would  be  quite  as  intrinsic 
as  the  Other's — if  he  went  to  Wordling  now.  She  could 
have  forgiven  a  boyish  carelessness  in  either,  but  Beth 
could  not  forgive  in  any  man  that  unfinished  humanity 
which  has  a  love-token  for  the  obviously  common  and 
sensuous.  .  .  .  She  was  ill  with  terror  and  tension. 
And  how  pitifully  human  she  was !  A  greater  faith  or  a 
lesser  strength  would  have  saved  her.  Beth  failed  in  the 
first.  It  was  her  madness  ;  her  mortal  enemy — this  pride. 

"  I  doubt  if  there  could  be  such  another  day  of  June," 
she  observed  at  last,  wondering  if  he  caught  the  hard 
note  in  her  voice.  .  .  .  This  would  bring  his  word. 
She  would  cry  aloud  with  happiness — if  the  day  had 
changed  him. 

"  To-morrow "  he  answered.  "  Beth,  is  there 

anything  to  prevent  to-morrow ?  " 

"Riding  together?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Not  to-morrow.  The  horses  had  better  rest  a  day. 
We  must  have  done  twenty-five  miles  to-day.  .  .  . 
But  early  next  week " 

She  had  turned  away,  as  one  averts  the  face  from 
disaster.  Even  had  she  not  turned  from  him,  it  was  too 
dark  to  see  his  queer  troubled  smile,  as  he  said : 

"  Monday,  I  go  away.  It's  that  ocean  matter.  Three 
days  will  finish  it,  I'm  sure." 

So  this  was  her  answer.  Beth  of  the  bestowals  had 
not  prevailed.  This  was  the  inner  uprooting.  Love-lady 
she  had  been — love-lady  of  thrilling  arts  this  day — and 
yet  his  determination  to  go  to  the  other  was  not  altered. 
.  .  .  She  would  not  show  him  tears  of  rage  and  jeal 
ousy.  She  would  not  see  him  again.  She  meant  to  show 
him  that  the  day  had  not  stormed  her  heart  of  hearts. 


250  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Her  spirit  was  torn,  and  she  was  not  above  hurting  him. 
.  .  .  "  Three  days  will  finish  it,  I'm  sure."  To  her 
the  sentence  had  the  clang  of  a  prison  door.  ...  It 
was  through  the  Other  that  she  proceeded  now.  .  .  . 
How  he  had  struck  her  through  another !  .  .  . 

They  had  walked  for  some  time  through  the  ever 
greens.  His  listening  had  become  like  a  furious  draught, 
her  brain  burning  intensely  beneath  it.  It  had  been  hard 
for  her  to  begin,  but  that  was  over.  .  .  .  "It  was  not 
until  to-day  that  there  was  any  need  to  tell  you,"  she  was 
saying.  "  You  were  inspiring  in  other  ways.  I  would 
have  been  stupid,  indeed,  not  to  have  seen  that,  but  some 
how  you  seemed  remote  from  everyday  habiliments  and 
workday  New  York — somehow  inseparable  from  silences 
— until  to-day — when  you  came  singing  Invictus.  You 
did  not  let  me  tell  you — out  there — in  the  sunlight.  You 
didn't  let  me  think  of  telling  you.  .  .  .  You  mustn't 
judge  me  always  so  susceptible " 

She  halted,  lost  for  an  instant  in  the  emptiness. 

"  Please  tell  me  about  him,"  Bedient  said. 

"  Why,  he  was  only  a  working  boy  when  he  first  came 
to  our  house — here,"  she  went  on.  "  I  was  just  back  from 
Paris — after  years.  I  remember  with  what  a  shock  of 
surprise  I  noted  the  perfection  of  his  face.  The  angle 
was  absolutely  correct  as  the  old  Hellenic  marbles,  and 
to  every  curve  was  that  final  warmth  which  stone  can  only 
distantly  suggest.  Then  he  was  tall,  but  so  light  and 
lithe " 

She  knew  he  would  not  fail  to  see  the  flaw  here — 
the  artistic  taint.  She  had  heard  him  deplore  the  worship 
of  empty  line,  saying  that  nature  almost  invariably  traves 
ties  it. 

"  I  was  hasty,  then,  in  my  conclusion  to-day,"  he  said, 
questioning,  "  when  I  asked  if  there  was  any  reason  why 
I  should  not  tell  you  how  great  you  are  to  me  ?  " 

"  It  did  not  seem  the  time  to  tell  you,"  she  answered 


A  Parable  of  Two  Horses  251 

quickly.    "  I  was  wrong,  but — it  was  not  wrong  to  him ! 
Please  don't  think  that !    I  sent  him  away." 

"  Oh,  I  see  better — thank  you.  And  now  go  on,  Beth, 
please " 

"  You  see,  he  was  my  work " 

Beth's  mother  now  called  from  the  front  door.  She 
was  going  upstairs  and  would  say  good-night  to  Mr. 
Bedient. 

"Go  to  her,"  Beth  whispered.  "I  shall  see  her 
later." 

.  .  .  And  now  she  stood  alone  by  the  gate,  her 
mind  seething.  Forces  within  falteringly  implored  her 
to  go  no  further.  She  found  in  his  few  brief  questions 
that  old  fidelity  to  truth  that  had  been  one  of  his  first 
charms.  This  helped  to  unsteady  her.  Was  she  not 
wrong  to  judge  this  man  by  the  standards  the  world 
had  made  her  accept  for  others  ?  .  .  .  The  day  came 
back.  Why  had  Wordling  been  so  far  from  her  mind 
out  there  in  the  sunlight?  Radiant  with  health,  thrilling 
with  mysteries,  in  the  summit  of  her  womanhood,  she 
had  been  above  fear,  and  he  above  evil.  The  Shadowy 
Sister,  too,  had  gone  forth  to  meet  him,  majestic  and 
unashamed.  What  spell  was  that  which  had  come  over 
her,  a  perfect  vein-dilation  in  the  brilliant  light?  Why, 
it  had  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  feel  the  pulse  of 
flower-stems,  and  paint  the  nervous  systems  of  the  bees. 
Painting — what  a  pitiful  transaction  was  art  (in  the 
divine  stimulus  at  that  hour)  compared  to  the  supernal 
happiness  of  evolved  motherhood !  And  what  exquisite 
homage  had  he  shown  her !  And  the  long  talk,  his  mind 
crowded  with  pictures  like  memories  of  a  world-voyage ! 
Again  and  again,  there  had  come  over  her,  some  inner 
uplift,  as  if  she  were  rising  upon  a  wave.  .  .  .  She 
heard  his  tones  now,  as  he  spoke  to  her  mother  on  the. 
porch,  and  his  gentleness  throughout  recurred. 

The  Other  had  gone  from  her  world,  and  now  he 


252  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

was  going.  Her  mind  shrank  from  the  new  and  utter 
desolation.  .  .  .  The  night  seemed  closing  about  her, 
as  she  stood  beside  the  gate.  Like  some  great  foreign 
elemental,  it  was,  until  she  was  near  to  screaming,  and 
perceived  herself  captive  to  madness — a  broken-nerved 
creature  in  a  strange  place,  stifling  among  aliens,  undone 
in  the  torment  of  strange  stars.  .  .  .  And,  another, 
the  ancient  terror  to  strong  women,  now  fell  upon  her,  to 
show  Beth  Truba  how  mighty  she  was  to  suffer.  The 
sense  of  her  own  fruitlessness  drove  home  to  her  breast, 
of  living  without  solution,  realizing  that  all  her  fluent  emo 
tions,  lovely  ideals,  all  her  sympathies,  dreams  and  labors, 
should  end  with  her  own  tired  hands;  that  she  must 
know  the  emptiness  of  every  aspiration,  while  half-fin 
ished  women  everywhere  were  girdled  with  children. 
.  .  .  He  was  coming  toward  her. 

That  instant,  a  merciful  blankness  fell  upon  her  mind. 
Out  of  the  fury  and  maiming,  her  consciousness  seemed 
lifted  to  some  cool  blackness.  There  was  just  one  vague, 
almost  primal,  instinct,  such  as  a  babe  must  feel — the  need 
to  be  taken  in  his  arms.  The  wall  between  them  would 
have  fallen  had  Bedient  done  that,  but  nothing  was 
further  from  his  thoughts.  He,  too,  was  groping  in  ter 
rible  darkness.  Her  spirit  was  lost  to  him.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  moonlight,  so  he  could  not  discern  the 
anguish  of  her  face,  and  the  sense  of  her  suffering 
blended  with  his  own.  ...  A  very  wise  woman  has 
said  that  it  isn't  a  woman's  mysteries  which  dismay  and 
mislead  a  man,  but  her  contradictions. 

"  And  now  tell  me  the  rest,  Beth,"  he  said  quickly, 
looking  down  into  the  pale  blur  which  was  her  face.  "  I 
must  know." 

She  shivered  slightly.  She  was  dazed.  Hatred  for 
the  moment,  hatred  for  self  and  the  world,  for  him,  im 
periously  pinning  her  to  the  old  sorrow;  his  failure  to 
make  a  child  of  her,  as  a  lover  of  less  integrity  might 
have  done — it  was  all  a  sickening  botch,  about  Word- 


A  Parable  of  Two  Horses  253 

ling's  pretty  taunting  face.  She  had  not  the  strength 
of  faculty  to  tear  down  and  build  again  the  better  way. 

"  You  were  telling  me  that  he  was  your  work — of  his 
face  and  all,"  Bedient  whispered. 

"  Oh,  yes.     .     .     .     Oh,  yes,  and  you  went  away " 

"Yes,"  he  said  strangely. 

"  I  must  have  been  dreaming.  ...  It  hurt  me 
so — he  hurt  me  so.  I  remember " 

And  now  a  cold  gray  light  dawned  in  her  brain,  and 
the  old  story  cleared — the  old  worn  grooves  were  easily 
followed. 

"  Yes/' 

"  But  I — perhaps — I  was  inexorable."  There  was 
something  eerie  in  that  touch  which  held  her  for  an 
instant. 

"  But  you  started  to  tell  me  more  about  him,  I'm  sure, 
at  first,"  Bedient  said.  The  idea  in  his  brain  needed  this. 

"  I  helped  him  in  his  studies,"  she  answered  angrily. 
There  was  something  morbid  to  her  in  Bedient's  intensity. 
"  I  helped  him  in  the  world,  or  friends  of  mine  did.  Yes, 
I  made  his  way  among  men  until  he  could  stand  alone. 
And  he  did,  quickly.  He  was  bright.  Even  his  refine 
ments  of  dress  and  manner  and  English — I  undertook  at 
the  beginning." 

Half -dead  she  had  fallen  into  the  old  current,  not 
comprehending  a  tithe  of  his  suffering. 

"  Oh,  I  put  love  into  it !"  she  said  dully.  "  I  thought 
it  the  most  glorious  work  I  ever  did." 

"  You  tell  me  wonderfully  about  yourself,  Beth,  with 
these  few  sentences.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  finer  in 
my  comprehension  than  the  'mother-spirit  in  the  maid 
which  makes  her  love  the  boy  or  the  man  whom  she  lifts 
and  inspires." 

The  cool  idealist  had  returned.  Beth  did  not  welcome 
him. 

"  I  believe  that  every  achievement  which  lifts  a  man 
above  his  fellows  is  energized  by  some  woman's  outpour- 


254  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

ing  heart.  She  bestows  brave  and  beautiful  things  of  her 
own,  working  in  the  dark,  until  the  hour  of  his  test,  as 
those  fine  straws  of  the  Tropics  are  woven  under 
water " 

"  And  what  mockery  to  find,"  she  finished  coldly, 
"  after  you  have  woven  and  woven,  that  the  fabric  finally 
brought  to  light  is  streaky  and  imperfect." 

Bedient's  business  of  the  moment  was  to  learn  if  she 
were  right  in  being  as  she  said,  "  inexorable  " ;  if  she  did 
not  sometimes  think  that  a  finely-human  heart  might  have 
come  since  to  that  flashing  exterior,  which  had  filled 
the  girlish  eyes.  He  could  only  draw  from  the  whole 
savage  darkness  that  the  Other  still  lived  in  her  heart. 

"  But  he  will  not  stay  forgotten— is  that  it,  Beth?" 

Into  the  cold  gray  light  of  her  mind,  came  a  curious 
parable  that  had  occurred  to  her,  as  they  started  out  to 
ride  this  'morning,  before  the  great  moments  of  high 
noon.  And  thus  she  related  it  to  Bedient  in  the  hatred 
which  filled  her,  last  of  all  from  his  imperturbable 
coolness : 

"  I  saddled  a  great  deal,  even  as  a  girl.  In  New  York, 
years  ago,  the  desire  came  to  possess  a  horse  of  my  own. 
I  bought  a  beautiful  bay  colt,  pure  saddle-bred,  rare  to 
look  upon ;  but  something  always  went  wrong  with  him. 
He  galled,  threw  a  shoe  and  went  lame,  stumbled,  in 
variably  did  the  unexpected,  and  often  the  dangerous, 
thing.  Truly  he  was  brand  new  every  morning.  I 
worried  as  if  he  were  a  child,  but  I  wasn't  the  handler 
for  him ;  he  spoiled  in  my  care ;  yet  how  I  loved  that  colt 
— the  first.  He  might  have  killed  me,  had  I  kept  him. 
.  .  .  It  was  over  a  year  before  I  had  the  heart  to  buy 
again — Clarendon — big,  courageous,  swifter  than  the 
other,  splendid  in  strength,  yet  absolutely  reliable  in 
temper.  Day  after  day,  in  all  roads  and  weathers,  he 
never  failed  nor  fell — until " 

Beth  halted.     The  parable  faltered  here.     She  fore- 


A  Parable  of  Two  Horses  255 

saw  a  dangerous  question,  and  finished  it  true  to 
Clarendon. 

"Until "  Bedient  repeated. 

"  Until  now — and  you  have  seen  him  to-day,"  she  said 
hastily.  "  Always  he  seems  to  be  aiming  at  improvement 
with  eager,  unabated  energy.  In  many  ways,  it  was  hard 
for  me  to  realize  that  a  horse  could  be  so  noble.  .  .  . 
And  yet  I  gave  to  the  first  something  that  I  didn't  have 
for  the  second.  Something  that  belonged  to  the  second, 
was  gone  from  me " 

A  moment  passed.  Beth  glanced  into  Bedient's  face, 
but  the  darkness  was  too  deep  for  her  to  see.  When  he 
spoke,  it  was  as  steadily  as  ever: 

"  I  understand  clearly,  Beth.  I  should  say,  don't  do 
the  first  an  injustice.  It  was  those  very  uncertainties  of 
his,  those  coltish  frights  and  tempers,  that  made  you  so 
perfect  a  mistress  of  the  second,  for  you  invariably  bring 
forth  the  best  from  the  second." 

Something  big  came  to  her  from  the  utterance.  But 
nothing  of  the  truth — that  his  heart  had  just  received 
a  death-thrust  to  its  love-giving.  .  .  .  He  had  left 
his  gloves  in  the  house.  He  asked  for  a  cup  of  water. 
.  .  .  It  was  strange — his  asking  for  anything.  She 
could  remember  only,  besides  this,  his  wish  expressed  that 
she  might  ride  with  him.  He  had  asked  nothing  this 
day.  And  it  was  a  cup  of  water  now.  .  .  .  They 
were  in  the  lamplight,  and  he  had  drunk.  .  .  .  She 
was  standing  by  the  table,  and  he  at  the  door  waiting  for 
her  to  lift  her  eyes.  .  .  .  Suddenly  she  felt,  through 
the  silence,  his  great  strength  pouring  over  her. 

She  looked  up  at  last.  There  was  a  dazzling  light 
in  his  eyes,  as  if  some  wonderful  good  to  do  had  formed 
in  his  mind. 

"  Beth,  was  he  the  Other  Man — who  rested  for  one 
day  on  the  mantel  in  the  studio?" 

"  Yes."     .     .     .The  question  shocked  her.    She  could 


256  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

not  have  believed  that  it  was  harder  for  him  to  ask,  than 
for  her  to  answer.  .  .  . 

He  came  nearer.  Like  a  spirit  he  came.  .  .  .  He 
seemed  very  tall  and  tired  and  white.  .  .  .  Her  hand 
was  lifted  to  his  lips,  but  when  she  turned,  he  was  gone. 

Beth  did  not  shut  the  door.  .  .  .  The  sound  of  a 
shut  door  must  not  be  the  last  so  strange  a  guest  should 
hear.  Beth  was  cold.  She  could  hardly  realize.  .  v'  . 

Bedient  turned  and  saw  the  light  streaming  out  upon 
the  porch.  She  was  not  visible,  but  her  shadow  stood 
forth  upon  the  boards,  arms  strangely  uplifted.  The 
mortal  within  him  was  outraged,  because  he  did  not  turn 
back — into  that  open  door. 


Ill 

EQUATORIA 

Allegro  Scherzo 


TWENTY-FIFTH   CHAPTER 

BEDIENT  FOR  THE  PLEIAD 

BEDIENT  dreamed: 

He  was  sitting  in  the  dark,  in  a  high,  still  place ;  and 
at  last  (through  a  rift  in  the  far  mountains),  a  faint 
ghost  appeared,  waveringly  white.  Just  a  shimmering 
mist,  at  first,  but  it  steadied  and  brightened,  until  the 
snowy  breast  of  old  God-Mother  was  configured  in  the 
midst  of  her  lowly  brethren  on  the  borders  of  Kashmir. 
.  .  ,  And  just  as  he  was  about  to  enter  into  the  great 
peace,  his  consciousness  beginning  to  wing  with  cosmic 
sweep,  the  rock  upon  which  he  sat  started  to  creak  and 
stir,  and  presently  he  was  rolled  about  like  a  haversack 
in  a  heaving  palanquin. 

Thus  he  awoke,  tossed  in  his  berth  aboard  the  Hat- 
teras — and  a  gale  was  on.  The  ship,  Southward  bound, 
was  far  off  the  cape  for  which  she  was  named,  asking 
only  wide  sea-room,  to  take  the  big  rollers  with  easy 
grace. 

Bedient  had  not  slept  long.  He  had  not  slept  for 
two  consecutive  hours  during  the  past  ten  days.  From 
the  open  door  of  her  mother's  house  in  Dunstan  his  whole 
life  had  felt  the  urge  to  India.  But  that  could  not  be. 
It  had  the  look  of  running  away. 

The  little  ocean  matter  had  been  happily  ended. 
.  .  .  The  exact  impulse  to  tell  David  Cairns  of  his 
intention  to  return  to  Equatoria,  and  the  moment  for  it, 
had  not  offered,  so  Bedient  had  parted  from  his  friend,  as 
one  going  to  a  different  room  for  the  night.  Nor  had  he 
seen  Mrs.  Wordling,  the  Grey  One,  Kate  Wilkes  or  Vina 
Nettleton  since  the  last  ride ;  though  for  the  latter,  he  left 
a  page  of  writing  she  had  asked. 

Beth  he  had  tried  to  see,  four  days  after  their  parting 
in  Dunstan,  but  she  was  not  at  her  studio,  nor  with  her 
mother.  He  did  not  seek  further. 

259 


260  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Bedient  felt  that  he  was  needed  in  Equatoria,  but 
there  was  another  reason  for  his  sudden  return,  than 
attention  to  the  large  financial  interests.  Though  his 
home  was  there,  Equatoria  had  no  imperious  call  for 
him  that  his  inner  nature  answered.  .  .  .  Only  India 
had  that.  The  very  name  was  like  water  to  a  fevered 
throat.  They  would  know  in  India.  Old  Gobind  had 
always  known : 

"  You  will  learn  to  look  within  for  the  woman.  You 
would  not  find  favor  in  finding  her  without.  It  is  not  for 
you — the  red  desire  of  love." 

How  he  had  rebelled  against  the  authority  of  those 
sentences,  but  his  respect  for  the  deep  vision  of  Gobind 
was  complete.  Moreover,  the  old  Sannyasin  had  said  he 
was  not  to  return  to  India  until  he  was  ready  to  give 
up  the  body.  No  sense  of  the  physical  end  had  come  to 
him,  even  in  his  darkest  hour.  There  was  much  for  him 
to  do,  and  in  New  York,  but  the  pith  was  gone  from 
him.  His  desolation  made  the  idea  of  returning  to  New 
York  one  of  the  hardest  things  he  had  ever  faced.  He 
had  thought  of  Beth  Truba  in  his  every  conception  of 
service.  She  inspired  a  love  which  held  him  true  to 
every  ideal  of  woman,  and  kept  the  ideals  flaming  higher. 
And  what  form  she  had  brought  to  his  concepts!  In 
expressing  himself  to  her,  direct  world-values  had 
attached  to  his  thoughts.  Through  her  he  had  seen  the 
ways  of  work.  Every  hour,  he  blessed  her  in  his  heart — 
again  and  again ;  and  every  hour,  the  anguish  deepened. 

But  work  had  a  different  look.  Darkness  covered  his 
dreams  of  service.  He  was  torn  down ;  some  great  vital 
ity  was  disintegrating.  His  projects  would  be  carried 
out ;  he  would  continue  to  give,  and  continue  to  produce 
the  things  to  give — but  the  heart,  the  love  of  giving,  the 
spirit  of  outpouring  to  men — these  were  gone  from  him. 
There  was  a  certain  emptiness  in  following  the  old  laws 
of  his  fuller  nature.  To  give  and  serve  now,  was  like 
obeying  the  commands  of  the  dead.  He  had  never  turned 


Bedient  for  The  Pleiad  261 

to  the  past  before.  He  would  have  been  the  first  to  tell 
another — that  one  who  looks  to  his  past  for  the  sanction 
of  some  act  of  the  present,  has  reached  the  end  of  growth. 

Bedient  could  not  lie  to  himself.  He  wanted  to  run 
away.  He  wanted  to  sit  at  the  knees  of  some  old  Gobind. 
Never  since  the  night  his  mother  had  taken  him  in  her 
arms,  had  he  so  needed  to  lean.  .  .  .  Yes.  he  had 
failed  to  find  favor — in  finding  the  woman. 

And  now  came  to  him  the  inevitable  thought,  and  not 
without  savagery  to  one  of  his  nature:  Was  his  high 
theme  of  uplift  for  women  stimulated  from  the  beginning 
by  his  need  of  a  human  mate?  Was  it  a  mere  man-pas 
sion,  which  had  charmed  all  his  thoughts  of  women,  from 
a  boy?  Was  this  the  glow  which  had  illuminated  his 
work  in  the  world,  during  the  maturing  silences  of  the 
Punjab?  Was  it  physical,  and  not  spiritual — this  love  of 
all  women,  until  he  had  come  into  his  love  of  one?  And 
must  he  lose  the  broader  love — in  missing  the  love  of  one  ? 

The  answer  lay  dark  in  his  consciousness.  Ways 
to  bring  happiness  to  women  had  come  to  him,  but  to 
carry  them  out  now  was  mere  obedience  to  the  old 
galvanism.  He  faced  this  realization  with  deadly 
shame.  .  .  . 

"  You  will  learn  to  look  within  for  the  woman."  And 
what  was  left  within?  In  a  kind  of  desperation,  Bedient 
turned  to  this  inventory.  The  old  faith  of  the  soul  in 
God,  in  the  Son,  and  in  the  Blessed  Mother-Spirit  still 
stood,  apart  and  above  the  wreckage,  unassailed.  This 
was  Light. 

In  these  furious  days  of  disintegration  Bedient's 
soul-faith  was  not  brought  to  test.  A  woman's  might 
have  fallen  with  her  love.  .  .  .  But  the  mighty  pas 
sionate  being,  that  was  roused  to  commanding  actions 
in  that  high  sunlit  hour,  died  slowly  and  with  agonies 
untellable. 

The  Hatteras  steamed  out  of  the  gale,  as  she  had 
done  out  of  many  another,  in  the  same  riotous  stretch  of 


262  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

sea-water.  Bedient  had  become  known  aboard  from  his 
association  with  Captain  Carreras.  It  was  during  the 
first  dinner  of  the  voyage  that  certain  interesting  infor 
mation  transpired  from  the  conversation  of  Captain 
Bloom. 

"  Insurrection  was  smoking  down  there  when  we  left 
ten  days  ago.  We  expected  to  hear  in  New  York  that 
the  shooting  had  begun.  Celestino  Rey  very  nearly  got 
a  body-blow  over,  while  we  were  hung  up  in  port  before 
the  last  trip  up.  Jaffier,  the  old  Dictator,  had  just  stepped 
out  of  his  dingy  little  capitol,  when  a  rifle-ball  tore 
through  his  sleeve,  between  his  arm  and  ribs.  His  sen 
tries  clubbed  the  rifle-man  to  death  in  the  street " 

"  It's  rather  a  peculiar  situation  as  I  understand  it," 
Bedient  said.  "  The  death  of  either  leader " 

"  Would  mean  an  end  to  his  party.  That's  it  exactly," 
said  Captain  Bloom. 

A  lively  listener  to  this  talk  at  the  Captain's  table  was 
a  dark-haired  young  woman  with  dancing  brown  eyes — 
Miss  Adith  Mallory.  She  was  slender,  and  not  tall, 
but  spirited  in  manner ;  exhibited  a  fine  freedom  with  her 
new  acquaintances  at  the  table,  mostly  gentlemen,  but 
with  an  elegance  which  repelled  familiarity.  Miss  Mal 
lory  seemed  to  find  great  fun  in  these  revolutionary 
affairs,  and  a  deep  interest  in  Andrew  Bedient,  and  his 
vast  holdings  on  the  Island.  Her  eyes  quickly  recalled 
to  Bedient's  mind  a  line  of  Tennyson's — "Sunset  and 
evening  star,  and  after  that  the  dark." 

He  saw  very  little  of  her  until  the  Hatteras  emerged 
into  the  warm,  blue  Caribbean,  and  he  no  longer  had  the 
excuse  of  rough  weather  to  keep  away  from  the  dining- 
saloon.  Miss  Mallory  favored  every  chance  for  a  talk 
with  Bedient,  and  once  or  twice  he  caught  her  regarding 
him  with  a  strange,  half-humorous  depth  of  glance.  One 
evening,  as  the  ship  was  passing  the  northern  coast  of 
Porto  Rico,  they  met  on  the  promenade.  The  Island  was 
a  heavy  shadow,  off  in  the  moon-bright  South. 


Bedient  for  The  Pleiad  263 

"...  They  say,  Mr.  Bedient,  that  if  the  revo 
lution  succeeds,  it  will  make  a  great  difference  to  you." 

"  Perhaps  it  may,"  he  replied. 

Miss  Mallory  had  heard  from  the  ship's  officers,  some 
thing-  of  his  relations  with  Captain  Carreras.  He  laugh 
ingly  deprecated  his  adequacy  as  a  money-master. 

"  That's  quite  extraordinary,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 
"  New  York  has  not  taught  me  to  expect  such  from  a 
man.  Then  the  American  dollar  is  not  the  sign  of  the 
Holy  of  Holies — to  you  ?  "  . 

.  .  .  Her  talk  was  blithe.  Presently  she  chaffed 
him  for  absences  from  the  saloon  during  the  rough 
weather. 

"  And  you  are  such  an  old  sailor,  too,"  she  finished. 

"  But  my  sailing  was  largely — sailing,"  he  said.  "  It's 
different  under  steam." 

"  But  we  have  been  nearly  three  days  in  a  turquoise 
calm,  and  I  have  watched  you.  A  goldfinch  would  pine 
away  on  the  nourishment  you  have  taken !  How  do  you 
manage  to  live  ?  " 

"  You  see  how  well  I  am,"  he  said. 

"  You're  not  nearly "  Miss  Mallory  checked  her 
self,  and  swallowed  several  times,  before  venturing  again : 
"  Do  you  know  what  I  thought  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  That  you  were  in  the  clutch  of  mortal  fear,  lest 
you  lose  your  fortune  in  the  fighting." 

"  That  was  a  bit  wide,  Miss  Mallory " 

"  In  reparation  for  that  injustice,  I  am  going  to  tell 
you — what  takes  me  to  Coral  City.  I  haven't  told  anyone 
else.  .  .  .  It's  the  prospect  of  a  war.  I've  always 
wanted  a  revolution.  You  can  never  know  how  much. 
.  .  .  You  see,  I'm  an  e very-day  working  woman,  a 
newspaper  woman,  but  out  of  routine  work.  Some  big 
things  have  fallen  to  me,  but  never  war.  Equatoria,  the 
name  and  everything  about  it,  has  enchanted  me  for 

\f  AO  f  C  __—___' * 

y  X'di  o 


264  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Bedient  liked  her  enthusiasm.  He  explained  much 
about  the  Island,  Jaffier,  Celestino  Rey,  The  Pleiad,  and 
the  manner  of  men  who  frequented  this  remarkable  palace. 
He  advised  Miss  Mallory  not  to  be  known  as  a  news 
paper  woman,  if  she  expected  a  welcome  at  The  Pleiad. 

The  Hatteras  finally  made  the  coral  passage,  and  was 
steaming  into  the  inner  harbor.  Miss  Mallory  left  Captain 
Bloom,  who  was  pointing  out  the  line  of  reefs,  to  join 
Bedient  on  the  promenade-deck. 

"  I'm  surprised  and  disappointed,"  she  said.  "  I 
expected  to  hear  shooting  long  before  this." 

"  It  may  not  be  started,"  he  suggested.  "  And  now, 
Miss  Mallory,  we'd  better  not  go  ashore  together.  I'm 
known  as  a  follower  of  Jaffier ;  and  since  you  go  to  The 
Pleiad,  the  only  really  suitable  place  to  live,  you'd  only 
complicate  your  standing  in  the  community  by  being  seen 
with  me.  If  The  Pleiad  should  happen  to  be  invested 
in  a  siege,  I'll  see  you  comfortably  quartered  elsewhere. 
In  any  case,  I  am  at  your  service." 

Bedient  was  entirely  unexpected  at  the  hacienda,  but 
a  small  caravan  had  come  down  to  meet  the  steamer  and 
carry  back  supplies.  Coral  City  was  feverish  with  ex 
citement,  although  the  revolutionists  had  not  yet  taken 
to  gunning.  Bedient  dispatched  a  letter  to  Jaffier  with 
greeting,  a  congratulation  on  his  escape  from  death  (re 
garded  in  the  letter  as  a  good  omen),  and  among  other 
matters,  an  inquiry  in  regard  to  the  American  Jim  Fram- 
tree,  whom  he  had  met  in  Coral  City,  just  before  he 
embarked  for  New  York.  This  done,  Bedient  procured 
a  saddle-pony,  and  started  alone  up  the  trails  to  the 
hacienda. 

He  reached  the  great  house  in  the  early  dusk.  Such 
was  the  welcome  Bedient  met,  that  for  a  moment,  he 
was  unable  to  speak.  It  was  spontaneous,  too,  for  he  was 
an  hour  ahead  of  the  caravan.  All  was  as  he  had  left. 
Dozens  of  natives  trooped  in  with  flowers  and  fruits,  and 
when  he  was  alone  upstairs,  their  singing  came  to  him 
from  the  cabins.  Bedient  did  not  realize  how 


Bedient  for  The  Pleiad  265 

worn  and  near  to  breaking  he  was,  until  the  outer  door 
of  his  apartment  was  shut ;  and  standing  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  with  a  laugh  on  his  lips,  he  had  to  wait 
two  or  three  minutes,  for  the  upheaval  to  subside  in  his 
breast.  ...  A  little  later,  he  crossed  to  the  Captain's 
quarters,  opened  the  door,  and  stood  in  the  dark  for 
several  moments,  his  head  bowed.  And  a  breath  of  that 
faint  sweet  perfume,  which  never  wearied  nor  obtruded, 
came  to  his  nostrils,  as  if  one  of  the  old  silk  handker 
chiefs  were  softly  waved  in  the  darkness. 

A  convoy,  in  the  charge  of  Dictator  Jaffier's  oldest  and 
most  trusted  servant,  reached  the  hacienda  at  noon  the 
next  day.  Thus  the  reply  to  his  letter  was  borne  to 
Bedient.  The  cumbersome  efficiency  clothed  an  impera 
tive  need  for  money  first  of  all.  Bedient  expected  this 
and  was  prepared  to  assist.  ...  A  revolution  was 
inevitable,  the  communication  further  divulged.  The 
point  in  Dictator  Jaffier's  mind  was  just  the  hour  to 
strike.  He  recognized  the  importance  of  striking  first ; 
but,  he  observed  sententiously,  there  was  an  exact  moment 
between  preparedness  and  precipitation.  Jaffier  believed 
that  Celestino  Rey  was  looking  for  a  shipload  of  rifles 
and  ammunition ;  but  the  entire  coast  was  guarded  by  the 
Defenders,  especially  The  Pleiad  inlet,  where  the  Span 
iard's  rare  yacht  lay.  A  seizure  of  the  contraband,  it 
was  naively  stated,  would  be  a  most  desirable  stroke  by 
the  government.  .  .  .  The  letter  closed  with  the  in 
formation  Bedient  had  especially  requested.  The  young 
American  Jim  Framtree,  whose  movements  in  part  had 
been  followed  by  Jaffier's  agents,  was  at  The  Pleiad  with 
his  chief,  Celestino  Rey,  and  was  doubtless  an  important 
member  of  the  rebel  staff.  .  .  . 

Bedient  read  the  letter  carefully  and  glanced  through 
it  again.  Jaffier's  reliable  held  out  his  hand  for  it. 

"If  the  Senor  has  carefully  digested  the  contents " 

he  began. 

"  Yes,  I  have  it  all " 


266  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

The  other  took  the  letter  and  touched  a  match  to  it, 
stepping  upon  the  crisp,  blackened  shell  of  fibre  that  fell 
to  the  floor.  He  carried  back  a  New  York  draft  for  a 
large  amount. 

Bedient  slept ;  that  is,  his  body  lay  moveless  from  mid- 
evening  to  broad  daylight,  that  first  night  at  the  hacienda. 
His  consciousness  had  taken  long  journeys  to  Beth, 
remarkable  pilgrimages  to  India  (and  found  Beth  there 
in  the  tonic  altitudes).  Always  she  regarded  him  with 
some  strange  terror  that  would  not  let  her  speak.  Home 
from  these  far  flights,  he  would  see  his  body  lying  still 
in  the  splendid,  silent  room,  fanned  by  soft  night-winds, 
and  quickly  depart  again.  ...  It  must  have  been  the 
beautiful  welcome  from  Falk  and  the  natives.  He  had 
broken  down  quite  absurdly,  all  his  furious  sustaining 
force  had  relaxed.  Perhaps  it  had  been  necessary  for  him 
to  break  down  before  he  could  sleep.  .  .  .  Many 
times  before,  he  had  seen  his  body  lying  asleep. 

He  was  more  than  ever  tired  and  torn  this  day.  Every 
vista  of  the  hills  held  poignant  hurt,  because  Beth  Truba 
could  not  see  this  beauty.  He  dared  not  touch  the  orches- 
trelle.  Falk  brought  coffee  and  fruit  after  Jaffier's  ser 
vant  had  departed.  Coffee  at  the  hacienda  was  a  perfect 
achievement.  Eight  years  of  training  under  Captain 
Carreras,  who  had  an  ideal  in  the  making,  and  who 
claimed  the  finest  coffee  in  the  world  as  the  product  of 
his  own  hills,  had  brought  the  beverage  to  a  high  point. 
Bedient  drank  with  a  relish  almost  forgotten,  but  in 
stantly  followed  that  crippling  pang — that  it  was  not  for 
Beth ;  that  she  could  not  breathe  the  warm  fragrant  winds. 
.  .  .  Bedient  sprang  up.  Some  hard,  brain-filling, 
body-straining  task  was  the  cry  of  his  mind.  This  was 
its  first  defensive  activity  against  the  tearing  down  of 
bitter  loneliness.  Until  this  moment,  he  had  endured 
passively. 

Bedient  determined  to  go  to  The  Pleiad.  He  had 
thought  of  various  ways  to  get  in  contact  with  Jim  Fram- 


Bedient  for  The  Pleiad  267 

tree,  but  there  were  obstacles  in  every  path,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  one  conceded  by  the  whole  Island  to  be 
Dictator  Jaffier's  right  hand,  as  Captain  Carreras  had 
been.  The  idea  appealed  more  every  second.  It  would 
startle  all  concerned,  Jaffier  and  Celestino  Rey  especially. 
But  the  former  had  just  received  a  large  financial  assur 
ance  of  his  loyalty,  and  there  was  value  in  giving  the 
ex-pirate  something  formidable  to  cope  with.  Moreover, 
to  meet  Jim  Framtree  again  was  Bedient's  first  reason  for 
sudden  return  to  Equatoria.  .  .  .  He  called  for  a 
pony,  and  followed  by  a  servant  with  a  case  of  fresh 
clothing,  rode  down  the  trail  to  Coral  City. 


TWENTY-SIXTH   CHAPTER 

HOW  STARTLING  IS  TRUTH 

BEDIENT  entered  The  Pleiad,  and  with  relief  breathed 
the  coolness  of  the  vast  shadowed  halls.  One  does  not 
ride  for  pleasure  on  a  June  afternoon  in  Equatoria,  and 
Bedient  was  far  from  fit.  ...  There  were  no  guests 
about.  A  pale,  slender,  sad-eyed  gentleman  appeared 
in  a  sort  of  throne  of  marble  and  mahogany,  and  perceiv 
ing  the  arrival,  his  look  became  fixed  and  glassy. 

"  Just  give  me  your  name,  please,  if  you  wish,"  the 
pale  one  said,  clearing  as  dry  a  throat  as  ever  gave  passage 
to  words.  Indeed,  Bedient  could  only  think  of  some  one 
stepping  upon  nut-shells  to  compare  with  that  voice.  The 
sentence  was  spoken  in  answer  to  his  glance  about 
for  a  register  or  something  of  the  sort.  .  .  .  No 
questions  were  asked  regarding  price,  baggage,  nor  the 
nature  of  the  quarters  desired.  A  Chinese  'servant 
appeared,  and  took  the  case  from  Bedient's  man,  who  was 
sent  down  to  quarter  in  the  city.  The  guest  followed 
the  Oriental.  The  stillness  and  vast  proportions  of  the 
structure;  the  endless  darkened  halls  robed  in  tapestries 
and  animate  with  oils ;  the  heavy  fragrance  from  the  gar 
dens,  crushed  out  of  blossoms  by  the  fierce  heat ;  rugs  of 
all  the  world's  weaving,  from  the  golden  fleeces  of 
Persia  to  fire-lit  Navajos;  a  glimpse  to  the  left,  of  a 
room  walled  with  books,  and  sunk  into  an  Egypt  of 
silence;  an  acreage  of  covered  billiard-tables  through 
a  vast  door  to  the  right — a  composite  of  such  impressions 
made  the  moment  memorable.  Bedient  could  only  think 
of  a  king's  winter  palace — in  summer.  .  .  .  He  left 
the  servant  to  return  a  moment  to  the  desk. 

"  Have  you  a  list  of  the  men-guests  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  pale  one  looked  disturbed ;  or  possibly  it  was 
268 


How  Startling  is  Truth  269 

disappointment  that  his  colorless  features  expressed,  as  if 
such  affairs  were  for  the  lesser  servants  of  the  establish 
ment,  and  not  in  the  province  of  gentlemanly  dealings. 

"  No,  we  have  no  such  list,"  he  said.  "  Later  in  the 
day,  when  it  is  cooler,  however,  most  of  our  guests  are 
abroad,  and  you  will  doubtless  have  little  difficulty  in 
finding  him  whom  you  seek.  You  will  become  familiar 
in  a  few  hours  with  our  little  peculiarities  of  management. 
There  is  little  to  complain  of  in  the  way  of  service,  I 
believe " 

Rejoining  the  Chinese,  Bedient  was  led  to  an  apart 
ment,  the  elegance  of  detail  and  effect  of  which  was  im 
perial,  no  less.  With  relief  he  stepped  out  of  his  riding 
clothes,  bathed  in  a  deliciously  tempered  shower,  and  sat 
down  to  think.  The  chair  folded  about  him  like  a  cool 
soft  arm.  The  whole  atmosphere  was  to  him  embarras 
singly  sensuous.  The  city  was  below,  shadowed  in  the 
swift-falling  night;  the  harbor  lay  in  purple  silence,  the 
sun  had  sunk  in  a  blood-orange  sky. 

A  smile  came  to  his  lips  at  the  heavy  seriousness  of 
life  all  about  him ;  vice  clinging  tenaciously  to  world- 
forms,  and  leaning  upon  the  purchasable  beauty  of  mar 
ble  and  figured  walls,  its  hollowness  sustained  with  the 
perfections  of  service.  Then  he  looked  across  the  dark 
harbor  to  the  sweep  of  deep  red  which  alone  remained 
of  the  sunset,  thinking  of  Beth  and  the  dividing  sea  and 
the  dividing  world,  and  why  it  had  happened  so.  He 
was  ashamed  because  he  could  not  think  of  the  great 
work  he  had  dreamed  of  doing  for  women,  because 
Beth  meant  Women  to  him  now,  and  he  was  not  for  her. 
.  .  ,  Would  the  visions  of  service  ever  come  back? 

This  brought  his  mind  to  the  thing  he  had  come 
to  The  Pleiad  to  do,  and  the  revolution  all  around  it, 
in  the  very  air.  What  a  queer  post — in  the  very  fortress 
of  insurrection.  It  was  all  boyish  stuff.  Many  adven 
tures  might  accrue.  Would  they  be  enough  to  keep 
his  mind  from  realities?  He  feared  not.  For 


£70  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

an  hour  he  sat  there,  regarding  the  lights  of  the  city  and 
harbor,  until  his  thoughts  grew  too  heavy,  and  the 
manacled  lover  within  him  was  spent  and  blood-drawn 
from  straining  against  his  chains — the  captive  that  would 
not  die.  .  .  .  He  arose  wearily  to  find  that  a  letter 
had  been  thrust  beneath  his  door,  and  so  silently  that  he 
had  not  been  aroused  from  his  thoughts.  The  paper  was 
of  palest  blue  and  heavy-laid.  His  name  was  written  with 
a  blunt  pen  in  an  angular,  eccentric  hand,  and  the  contents 
proved  unique: 

MR.  ANDREW  BEDIENT, 

SIR:  Many  of  my  guests  have  caught  the  spirit  of  The 
Pleiad  more  readily  and  pleasurably,  after  making  the  acquaint 
ance  of  one  elsewhere  designated,  I  believe,  the  proprietor.  We 
do  not  use  the  word  here,  as  we  are  friends  together.  The  fact 
that  my  manager  showed  you  apartments  is  enough  to  make  me 
glad  to  welcome  you.  He  makes  few  mistakes.  Will  you  not 
dine  with  me  at  eight  this  evening  in  the  Shield  Room.  If  you 
have  a  previous  engagement,  pray  do  not  permit  me  to  disturb 
it,  as  I  shall  be  ready  at  your  good  time. 

With  unwonted  regard, 

CELESTINO  REV. 

Bedient  sat  down  again.  The  systems  of  the  house 
moved  him  to  amusement  and  marvelling.  To  think  that 
the  pale  creature  at  the  desk  had  weighed  him  from  all 
angles  of  desirability;  and  like  some  more  or  less  infal 
lible  Peter  had  allowed  him  to  enter  into  the  abiding  peace 
of  The  Pleiad.  It  was  rather  a  morsel,  that  he  had  not 
been  turned  away.  Then  to  be  invited  to  dine  the  first 
evening  with  the  establishment's  presiding  individuality, 
who  did  not  approve  of  the  term,  "  proprietor."  There 
was  a  tropic,  an  orient,  delight  about  the  affair. 

"  To  think  a  stranger  must  lose  or  win  caste  in 
Equatoria,  on  the  glance  of  that  Tired-eyed,"  he  mused. 
"  I  really  must  master  this  atmosphere." 

Bedient  thought  of  Treasure  Island  Inn,  in  the  lower 
city,  where  a  stranger  would  probably  go,  if  denied  en- 


How  Startling  is  Truth  271 

trance  at  The  Pleiad.  "  Infested  "  was  the  word  Captain 
Carreras  had  once  used  to  depict  its  denizens.  ...  A 
few  minutes  before  eight  Bedient  left  the  room  and  de 
scended.  From  the  staircase,  he  perceived  that  the  guests 
had,  indeed,  gathered  at  this  hour.  The  company  was 
not  large,  but  rather  distinguished  at  first  glance.  So 
various  were  the  nationalities  represented  that  Bedient 
thought  the  picture  not  unlike  a  court-ball  with  attaches 
present.  The  hum  of  voices  was  quickened  with  half  the 
tongues  of  Europe,  and  now  and  then  an  intonation  of 
Asia.  There  were  more  men  than  women,  but  this  only 
accentuated  the  attractions  of  the  latter,  of  which  there 
were  two  or  three  sense-stirring  blooms. 

For  just  an  instant  on  the  staircase,  Bedient  stood 
among  the  punkah-blown  palms  to  scan  the  faces  below. 
Framtree  was  not  there,  but  Miss  Mallory  appeared  in  a 
discussion  with  an  elderly  gentleman,  and  her  usual  ani 
mation  was  apparent.  Bedient  was  struck  with  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  singularly  remiss.  In  the  thirty  hours 
which  had  passed  since  their  parting,  her  likeness  had  not 
once  entered  his  mind,  and  he  had  offered  to  see  that  she 
was  comfortably  ensconced.  Her  eyes  turned  to  him  now, 
but  as  quickly  turned  away.  He  had  tried  to  bow. 
.  .  .  And  at  this  moment,  Bedient  perceived  the  lan 
guid  eye  of  the  man  at  the  desk,  cooling  itself  upon  him. 
Crossing  the  tiles  from  the  stairs  toward  this  gentleman, 
moreover,  he  was  covered  with  glances  from  the  guests, 
eyes  of  swift,  searching  intensity.  "  How  interested  they 
are  in  a  stranger,"  he  thought.  There  was  a  sharpness  of 
needles  and  acid  in  the  air. 

Low  chimes  from  an  indefinite  source  now  struck  the 
hour  of  eight.  A  Chinese  stepped  up  to  the  desk  beside 
Bedient. 

"  You  are  dining  with  Senor  Rey  ? "  the  manager 
inquired  lazily. 

Bedient  nodded,  and  turned  to  greet  Miss  Mallory. 
She  caught  his  eye  and  intent,  and  promptly  turned  her 


272  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

back.  For  the  first  time,  Bedient  felt  himself  a  little 
inadequate  to  cope  with  the  psychological  activities  of  this 
establishment.  Reverting  to  the  desk,  the  manager 
appeared  dazed  and  absent-minded  as  usual. 

"  The  boy,"  he  said,  indicating  the  Chinese,  "  will  show 
you  to  the  Shield  Room." 

Bedient  trailed  the  soft-footed  oriental  through  the 
bewildering  hall,  until  he  saw  Senor  Rey  standing  in  a 
doorway — and  behind  him  a  low-lit  arcanum  of  leather 
and  metal.  .  .  .  The  face  of  the  Spaniard  was 
startling,  like  the  discovery  of  a  crime.  It  was  lean  and 
livid  as  a  cadaver.  The  pallor  of  the  entire  left  cheek, 
including  the  corner  of  the  lips,  had  the  shine  of  an  old 
burn,  the  pores  run  together  in  a  sort  of  changeless  glaze. 
In  the  haggard,  bloodless  face,  eyes  shone  with  black 
brilliance.  The  teeth  were  whole  and  prominent,  as  was 
the  entire  bony  structure  of  the  face  and  skull.  Senor 
Rey  had  a  tall,  attenuated  figure,  with  military  shoulders. 
He  moved  with  great  difficulty,  as  if  lacking  control  of 
his  lower  limbs,  but  in  his  hands  was  the  contrast — long, 
white,  swift  and  perfectly  preserved.  The  scarred  face 
and  ruffled  throat  united  to  form  in  Bedient's  mind  the 
hideous  suggestion  that  the  Spaniard  had  once  been  tor 
tured  full-length — his  flesh  once  thrawned  in  machinery 
of  the  devil.  .  .  .  Bedient 's  hand  was  grasped  in  a 
cold  bony  grip,  and  his  eyes  held  for  an  instant  in  the 
bright  unquiet  gaze  of  the  Spaniard. 

"  I  welcome  you,  Mr.  Bedient.  .  .  .  Do  you  plan 
to  be  with  us  some  little  time  ?  "  The  Senor  spoke  in  a 
low,  monotonous  way.  His  English  was  but  little  colored 
by  native  speech. 

"  I  cannot  tell  yet,"  said  Bedient.  "  I  have  long 
wanted  to  see  your  wonderful  house,  but  this  particular 
moment,  I  came  to  find  a  certain  man " 

Bedient  noted  the  yellow  eyelids  of  the  other  droop 
a  little.  He  understood  perfectly  that  there  were  many 
men  now  at  The  Pleiad  who  were  badly  wanted. 


How  Startling  is  Truth  273 

"Don't  mistake  me,  Senor  Rey,"  he  added.  "The 
man  I  wish  to  talk  with  can  only  prosper  for  my  coming." 

"  Frequently  it  happens  that  the  one  searched  for  in 
Equatoria — is  the  last  found,"  the  Spaniard  observed. 

Linen,  silver,  crystal  and  candle-radiance  were 
superbly  blended  upon  the  small  round  table  between 
them.  Rey,  as  a  talker,  was  artful  and  inspiriting.  His 
disordered  body  seemed  an  ancient  classic  volume,  done 
in  scarred  vellum — a  book  of  perils,  named  Celestino 
Rey — and  all  things  about,  the  spears,  guns,  skins,  shields, 
even  the  grim  shadows,  were  but  references  to  the  text. 
The  dinner  was  perfect.  A  tray  of  wines  and  a  sheaf 
of  cheroots  were  placed  upon  the  balcony,  at  length,  with 
two  chairs  covered  with  puma  skins.  The  Chinese  assisted 
Rey  thither,  and  when  they  were  alone,  he  said: 

"  Do  you  feel  at  all  like  discussing  the  affair  which 
really  brings  you  to  The  Pleiad?  .  .  .  You  neither 
eat  nor  drink  nor  smoke — perhaps  you  talk." 

Bedient  laughed.  "  Wouldn't  it  be  the  simplest  way 
to  believe  me  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  want  to  see  Jim  Framtree, 
and  I  heard  he  was  here.  The  matter  has  nothing  to  do 
with  Equatoria,  the  present  unrest,  nor  with  any  relation 
of  his  or  mine  to  the  Island  or  to  The  Pleiad.  You  can 
make  it  possible  for  me  to  see  him  at  once." 

"  Unfortunately,  I  cannot.  My  province  in  The  Pleiad 
is  to  cut  down  tension  to  a  minimum.  So  many  gentle 
men  present  are  of  a  highly  nervous  temperament.  My 
best  procedure  many  times  is  to  act  negatively.  .  .  . 
Doubtless  Dictator  Jaffier  was  very  glad  of  your  return 
to  the  dreamiest  of  climates " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bedient. 

"  I  noted  this  morning  that  he  dispatched  a  convoy  to 
your  hacienda,  bearing  doubtless  the  official  welcome  " 

"Yes,  I  met  the  party." 

Bedient  perceived  that  the  Spaniard  missed  little  that 
was  going  on  in  the  city  and  Island ;  also  that  he  believed 
Jaffier's  convoy  had  something  to  do  with  his  own  pres- 
18 


274  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

ence  at  The  Pleiad;  and  finally  that  Celestino  Rey  was  not 
trained  to  truth.  In  fact,  Bedient  had  done  more  to  dis 
concert  the  master  of  the  establishment  by  stating  the 
exact  facts,  than  by  any  strategy  he  might  have  evolved. 
.  .  .  Bedient  arose  at  length  and  took  the  cold  hand. 
He  could  not  forbear  a  laugh. 

"  I  am  flexible  enough  to  appreciate  your  position," 
he  said.  "  As  an  acknowledged  resource  of  the  govern 
ment,  I  suppose  it  is  rather  hard  to  see  me — at  this  par 
ticular  moment  in  the  history  of  Equatoria — as  carrying 
anything  so  simple  as  a  friendly  token." 

"  You  are  very  absorbing  to  me,  Mr.  Bedient,"  the 
Senor  said  delicately.  "  An  old  man  may  express  his 
fondness.  ...  I  am  glad  The  Pleiad  pleases  you. 
I  have  built  it  out  of  the  clods  that  the  world  has  hurled 
at  me,  and  have  preserved  enough  vitality  to  laugh  at  it 
all.  I  find  it  best  to  keep  down  the  tension " 

The  younger  man  assisted  the  Spaniard  to  his  feet. 

"  Ah,  thank  you,"  said  the  Senor,  bowing.  "  I  am 
dead  below  the  knees." 

Bedient  strolled  a  bit  in  the  gardens.  Framtree,  if 
anywhere  in  the  establishment,  did  not  show  himself  out 
side,  nor  in  the  buffet,  library,  billiard-hall,  nor  lobby. 
The  extent  and  grandeur  of  the  house  was  astonishing, 
as  well  as  the  extreme  efficiency  of  the  service.  A 
Chinese  was  within  hand-clap  momentarily.  There 
seemed  scores  of  them,  fleet,  silent,  immaculate,  full  of 
understanding.  Their  presence  did  not  bore  one,  as  a 
plethora  of  white  servants  might  have  done.  Bedient 
reflected  that  the  Chinese  have  not  auras  of  the  obtruding 
sort.  ...  In  his  room  finally,  he  drew  a  chair  up  to  the 
window,  and  sat  down  without  turning  on  light. 

He  had  never  felt  wider  awake  than  now,  and  mid 
night  struck.  He  could  not  keep  his  thoughts  upon  the 
different  facets  of  the  present  adventure,  but  back  they 
carried  him  through  the  studio-days,  one  after  another, 
steadily,  relentlessly  toward  the  end.  It  was  like  the 


How  Startling  is  Truth  275 

beating  of  the  bass  in  one  of  those  remorseless  Russian 
symphonies.  .  .  .  The  ride — the  halt  upon  the  high 
way  at  high  noon — the  kiss  in  that  glorious  light — her 
wonderful  feminine  spirit  .  .  .  and  then  the  blank 
until  they  were  at  her  mother's  house.  He  never  could 
drive  his  thoughts  into  that  woodland  path.  From  the 
first  kiss  to  the  tragedy  and  the  open  door,  only  glimpses 
returned,  and  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  will. 
.  .  .  He  felt  his  heart  in  an  empty  rapid  activity,  and 
his  scalp  prickled.  The  captive  that  would  not  die  was 
full  of  insane  energy  that  night.  .  .  . 

Once  Bedient  went  to  the  door,  following  an  inex 
plicable  impulse.  At  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  fully  seventy 
yards  away,  stood  Jim  Framtree  talking  with  a  woman. 
A  Chinese  servant  hurried  forward  to  Bedient,  as  if  risen 
from  the  floor.  .  .  .  Framtree  and  the  woman  sepa 
rated.  Bedient  took  a  gold  coin  from  his  pocket,  and 
thrust  it  hastily  into  the  hand  of  the  servant,  saying: 

"  Ask  that  gentleman  to  come  here  for  a  moment." 

The  Chinese  did  not  return,  nor  did  Framtree  call  that 
night. 

But  even  this  slight  development  could  not  hold  his 
thoughts.  .  .  .  Bedient  wondered  if  the  captive  would 
ever  die ;  and  if  he  should  die,  would  he  not  rise  again  at 
the  memory  of  that  first  kiss  in  the  June  sunlight  ?  .  '.  . 
And  so  he  sat,  until  the  day.  Then  he  noted  another  let 
ter  had  been  slipped  under  his  door.  It  was  of  course 
from  Senor  Rey : 

May  I  trouble  you,  my  really  delightful  friend  (it  read), 
not  to  bestow  any  favors  larger  than  a  peso  upon  my  servants? 
They  are  really  very  well  paid,  and  do  not  expect  it.  Ten  dollar 
gold-pieces  for  any  slight  service  are  disorganizing  and  increase 
the  tension.  I  beg  to  be  considered, 

In  a  really  mellowing  friendship, 

CELESTINO  REV. 


TWENTY-SEVENTH   CHAPTER 

THE  ART  OF  MISS  MALLORY 

BEDIENT  was  not  a  student  of  disease.  Perhaps  he 
would  have  granted  that  destructive  principles  are  preg 
nant  with  human  interest  in  the  abstract,  but  his  intelli 
gence  certainly  was  not  challenged  by  these  dark  systems 
of  activity.  He  saw  that  even  if  his  mind  were  not  held 
in  anguish,  he  lacked  the  equipment  to  cope  with  Pleiad 
affairs.  As  it  was,  his  attention  positively  would  not 
concentrate  upon  the  rapid  undercurrents,  where  the  real 
energy  of  the  habitues  seemed  to  operate.  It  was  all 
like  a  game  of  evil  children,  or  rather  of  queer  unfinished 
beings,  a  whirring  everywhere  of  the  topsy-turvy  and  the 
perverse — sick  and  insane  to  his  weary  brain. 

It  was  clear  that  the  Chinese  had  not  carried  the  mes 
sage  to  Framtree,  but  had  consulted  the  Spaniard  instead. 
Had  Bedient  told  Rey  that  he  had  come  to  The  Pleiad  to 
find  Jenkins,  or  Jones,  or  Judd,  he  would  doubtless  have 
been  permitted  to  see  Framtree  at  once. 

None  of  the  matters  made  the  impression  upon  his 
mind  as  that  one  glimpse  of  Jim  Framtree  at  the  far-end 
of  the  hall.  It  was  not  that  he  was  in  the  building,  though 
this  was  of  course  important ;  but  the  magnificent  figure 
of  the  man  in  evening  wear  was  the  formidable  impres 
sion  The  Pleiad  furnished.  This  concerned  his  real  life ; 
the  rest  was  without  vitality. 

By  this  time,  however,  Bedient  was  willing  to  grant 
that  The  Pleiad,  and  even  Coral  City,  formed  a  nervous 
system  of  which  Celestino  Rey  was  the  brain.  .  .  . 
He  had  given  up  hope  of  writing  a  note  to  Jim  Framtree, 
realizing  it  would  have  no  more  chance  of  getting  past 
the  Spaniard  than  a  clicking  infernal-box. 

Framtree  was  nowhere  abroad  when  Bedient  went 
below.  The  former  moved  apparently  in  a  forbidden 

276 


The  Art  of  Miss  Mallory  277 

penetralia  of  this  house  of  mystery.  But  surely  he  could 
not  continue  miraculously  to  disappear.  .  .  .  Bedient 
strolled  down  into  the  city.  He  sadly  faced  the  fact  that 
the  hacienda  had  no  call  for  him;  little  more  than  The 
Pleiad.  He  turned  in  Calle  Real  to  look  back  at  the 
great  dome  of  the  Spaniard's  establishment.  It  was  a 
gorgeous  attraction  of  morning  light.  ...  A  Chinese 
slipped  into  a  fruit-shop — one  of  the  house-servants. 
Bedient  made  his  way  to  the  water-front.  The  Hatteras 
was  out  there  in  the  harbor,  surrounded  by  lighters,  pre 
paring  for  the  return  voyage  to  New  York.  This  was  the 
lure.  It  came  with  a  pang  that  disordered  all  other 
mental  matters  for  a  space. 

Presently  he  found  himself  wandering  along  the 
water-front.  With  an  exoteric  eye  (for  the  deeps  of  the 
man  were  in  communion)  he  regarded  the  faces  of  all 
nations.  Coral  City  held  as  complete  a  record  of  crime, 
cruelty,  and  debauchery  as  one  could  find  in  the  human 
indices  of  any  port.  Many  were  closing  their  annals  of 
error  in  decrepitude  and  beggary;  others  were  well- 
knit  studies  of  evil,  with  health  still  hanging  on,  more  or 
less,  and  much  deviltry  to  do.  A  blue  blouse,  or  a  bit  of 
khaki;  British  puttees  and  a  flare  of  crimson;  Russian 
boots  and  a  glimpse  of  sodden  gray;  or  an  American 
campaign-hat  crowning  a  motley  of  many  services, — 
explained  that  the  soldiers  of  the  world  found  Equatoria 
desirable  in  not  a  few  cases  for  finishing  enlistments.  It 
was  quite  as  evident,  too,  that  the  criminal  riff-raff  of  this 
world  and  hour  found  lodging  in  the  lower  city,  as  did 
its  aristocracy  in  The  Pleiad. 

"A  couple  of  hundred  such  as  these,"  Bedient  re 
flected,  "  led  by  some  cool  devil  of  a  humorist,  could  loot 
the  Antilles  and  get  away  before  the  intervention  of  the 
States.  What  an  army  of  incorrigibles — an  industrious 
adventurer  could  recruit  here !  " 

Then  the  truth  came  to  his  mind.  These  belonged  to 
Sefior  Rey's  army.  Only  the  Spaniard  could  command 


278  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

this  part  of  the  city  to  desperate  endeavor.  His  pesos 
and  influence,  like  alcohol,  penetrated  and  dominated  the 
mass.  .  .  .  Signs  vehemently  proclaimed  that  Ameri 
can  beer  was  important  among  the  imports  of  Equatoria ; 
and  in  a  certain  street  he  encountered  pitiful  smiles  and 
furtive  gestures  from  the  upper  balconies. 

"  Strange,"  he  thought,  "  wherever  lawless  men 
gather,  their  mates  fly  after  them  from  court  and  slum. 
It  is  not  men  alone  who  love  to  venture — and  venture 
to  love ! " 

Bedient  was  ascending  Calle  Real  once  more,  when 
his  cheek  was  flicked  by  a  tiny  wad  of  paper  which  fell 
at  his  feet.  A  carometa  was  toiling  up  the  slope  from 
the  water-front.  He  observed  Miss  Mallory's  profile  in 
the  seat.  She  had  not  deigned  to  look,  but  with  the 
dexterity  of  a  school-boy  the  pellet  had  been  snapped 
from  her  direction.  He  pocketed  the  message  and  laughed 
at  her  innocent  and  unconcerned  expression.  A  little  later 
he  managed  to  read  at  a  glance : 

Meet  the  old  military  man  you  saw  me  with  last  evening. 
Perhaps  he'll  introduce  us. 

How  quick  she  had  been  to  sense  the  profundities  of 
the  Spaniard's  establishment!  Bedient  was  glad  that  she 
held  nothing  against  him,  and  a  bit  surprised  again  that 
he  had  forgotten  all  about  her  reversal  of  form  at  his 
approach  the  night  before.  .  .  .  He  had  little  diffi 
culty  in  making  the  acquaintance  of  Colonel  Rizzio  during 
the  day,  and  was  formally  presented  to  Miss  Mallory  at 
dinner  that  evening. 

"  I  have  heard  it's  quite  the  mode  here  to  have  names 
as  well  as  costumes  for  the  climate,"  she  said.  "  My 
wardrobe  is  limited,  and  I  am  Miss  Mallory — as  in  New 
York." 

It  was  an  hour  before  they  were  alone  together. 

"  My  friend,"  she  said,  "  you  are  looking  ill — more 
than  ever  ill.  .  .  .  Isn't  there  anything  I  can  do? 
Isn't  there  something  you  might  tell  me?" 


The  Art  of  Miss  Mallory  279 

Bedient  felt  her  real  kindness.  "  You  are  good,"  he 
answered.  "  I'm  all  right,  hardly  know  what  it  means 
not  to  be  fit.  ...  And  now  tell  me  how  you  find 
things." 

They  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  coffee-room,  so  no  one 
could  listen  without  being  observed.  Yet  their  voices 
were  inaudible  five  feet  away. 

"  It  was  clear  to  me  at  once,"  she  said,  "  that  I  had 
better  not  meet  you  as  a  friend.  They  probably  knew  we 
both  came  down  on  the  Hatteras,  but  that's  no  reason 
for  our  being  acquainted." 

"  And  now  we  must  be  casual  acquaintances — if 
your  work  would  prosper,"  Bedient  said. 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  plainer  it  becomes  that 
I've  sort  of  disorganized  Rey  and  his  intimates.  It  really 
is  odd  for  me  to  be  here " 

Miss  Mallory  searched  his  face  in  her  keen,  swift  way. 

"  When  I  came  to  understand  at  all,"  she  said,  "  I 
didn't  expect  to  see  you  here.  ...  It  isn't  about 
the  war,  is  it?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  she 
might  meet  the  man  he  wished  to  see,  and  he  added :  "  I 
have  a  message  for  a  man  named  Framtree.  Senor  Rey 
apparently  thinks  this  man  would  not  be  safe  in  my  hands. 
At  least,  I'm  not  allowed  to  see  him  alone " 

"  And  he's  here?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  of  that." 

"  I  haven't  met  anyone  of  that  name." 

"  You  couldn't  mistake.  In  my  opinion,  Miss  Mallory, 
he's  easily  the  best-looking  man  on  the  Island." 

"  I'm  sure  I  haven't  met  him."  .  .  .  She  hesi 
tated,  smiling  queerly.  "  But  if  I  should,  is  there  any 
way  I  can  help  you  ?  " 

"  Not  by  speaking  to  him  about  me.  That  would  yoke 
you  with  my  fortunes." 

"How,  then?" 

Her  eagerness  appealed  to  him.     "  If  you  could  tell 


280  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

me  at  any  time  just  where  I  might  find  this  Framtree — 
yes,  that  would  help,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 

"  I'd  be  proud  to  help  you  in  any  way.  .  .  .  It's 
the  most  fascinating  place  I've  ever  been  in,"  she  added 
with  an  effort.  "  I  haven't  heard  a  thing  about  war,  but 
the  whole  establishment  is  buzzing  with  conspiracies  and 
mystery.  There  isn't  any  rest.  Everyone  is  afraid  of  his 
neighbor ;  no  one  trusts  himself  to  fall  asleep  in  peace,  for 
fear  someone  will  pry  his  secret  away — a  terrible  atmos 
phere — but  what  an  adventure  if  it  breaks  into  war  before 
my  eyes.  .  .  .  And  I've  met  the  Glow-worm " 

Her  whole  manner  changed  for  an  instant.  Miss 
Mallory  was  now  an  emancipated  creature,  living  to  the 
very  rim  of  her  being.  She  belonged  to  the  tropics,  and 
was  playing  a  game  all  spiced  with  enchantments.  .  .  . 
Bedient  remembered  what  Captain  Carreras  had  said 
about  the  Glow-worm,  on  the  day  of  his  first  coming  to 
Equatoria.  The  story  attached  was  that  Celestino  Rey 
had  found  this  woman  among  the  red  lights  of  Buenos 
Aires,  and  had  forced  her  to  come  with  him.  Bedient 
was  not  particularly  interested,  but  Miss  Mallory's  study 
of  the  hidden-flamed  creature,  Senora  Rey,  and  what 
she  told  him,  adjusted  easily  to  what  he  had  already 
heard  of  the  woman  from  South  America. 

"  She's  pure  mother-earth  and  nothing  besides,"  Miss 
Mallory  went  on.  "  Olive  skin,  yellow  eyes  with  languid 
lids,  lazy  gestures,  and  a  regal  head  of  yellow  hair. 
Something  about  her  suggests  that  she  might  turn  into 
an  explosive  at  certain  contacts,  but  she's  horribly  afraid. 
It  really  gives  one  a  thrill  to  hear  her  speak  of  South 
America.  She  fondles  the  syllables  and  points  strangely 
over  her  shoulder,  at  every  mention  of  her  land.  She's 
dying  the  slow  terrible  death  of  nostalgia " 

"But  of  what  is  she  'horribly  afraid'?"  Bedient 
asked. 

"  Of  the  Spaniard — her  husband.  Somehow  he  has 
managed  to  madden  her  with  fear.  She  trembles  at  his 


The  Art  of  Miss  Mallory  281 

name  or  approach  like  a  horse  that  has  been  cruelly 
beaten." 

Only  for  a  moment  had  Miss  Mallory  revealed  the 
depth  of  her  interest  in  the  affairs  of  The  Pleiad.  An 
observer  would  have  taken  the  pair  for  the  merest  ac 
quaintances.  The  coffee-room  murmured  with  many 
undertones.  They  arranged  to  meet  at  luncheon  the 
following  day  and  quickly  separated.  Miss  Mallory 
was  now  aware  that  her  avenues  of  action  would  be 
closed,  if  it  were  noted  that  she  had  more  than  a  casual 
interest  in  Andrew  Bedient 

The  latter  saw  nothing  further  of  Sefior  Rey  for  two 
days,  and  did  not  catch  even  a  second  glimpse  of  Jim 
Framtree.  His  hours  of  darkness  and  daylight  were 
given  over  to  the  old  destructive  monotony — the  dark 
drifting  of  his  mind,  all  the  constellations  of  love  and 
labor  and  life  shut  off  by  the  black  mass  of  nimbus.  His 
identity  became  lost  to  all  order;  the  forces  of  his  being 
seemed  in  some  process  of  fermentation.  His  hours  alone 
were  animate  with  psychic  experiences,  but  he  attached  no 
significance  to  them,  because  he  believed  them  the  direct 
result  of  physical  weakness.  Again  and  again  he  turned 
upon  himself  fiercely,  discovering  that  an  hour  had  passed, 
while  he  had  been  tranced  in  strange  attention  for  the. 
recurrence  of  some  voice  in  his  brain.  Angrily,  he  would 
brush  the  whole  phantasmagoria  away,  force  himself  back 
into  the  world  of  Equatoria,  stride  out  of  his  rooms,  if  it 
were  day,  and  down  into  the  city ;  but  the  pressure  of  the 
deeper  activities  of  his  mind  would  steal  back  and  com 
mand  him.  His  physical  nature  was  sunk  into  a  great 
ennui,  and  the  other  forces  were  the  mightier. 

Bedient  comprehended  this  descent;  even  wondered 
how  far  down  a  man  could  go — and  live.  It  was  the  first 
thing  that  ever  mastered  him.  The  temptation  to  leave 
Framtree  and  to  take  even  a  flying  trip  to  India — since 
New  York  was  not  for  him — this  was  tangible,  and  he 
whipped  it,  though  the  conflict  used  up  all  his  power. 


282  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

He  had  nothing  left  to  combat  the  vague  psychic  thrall 
that  appeared  to  be  destroying  his  life.  An  understanding 
friend,  as  David  Cairns  had  come  to  be,  would  have  per 
ceived  startling  changes  in  Andrew  Bedient,  and  forth 
with  would  have  contended  with  the  enemy  for  every  inch 
of  advance.  Bedient  was  a  bit  awed  by  his  great  weak 
ness.  His  physical  deterioration  did  not  trouble  him,  but 
his  anchorage  in  the  great  work  of  his  time  had  given 
way.  He  had  to  stop  and  think  hard,  to  recall  the  least 
and  simplest  of  his  conceptions  of  service.  His  sense  of 
shame  was  consuming  in  that  all  the  good  within  him  was 
gone,  because  he  was  destined  to  be  denied  a  human  mate. 

As  to  his  exterior  fortunes,  there  was  substance  in  the 
matters  pertaining  to  the  Glow-worm,  which  Miss  Mallory 
brought,  but  they  hardly  held  him  past  the  moments  of 
their  telling.  They  had  met  for  luncheon.  She  was 
unable  to  speak  for  a  moment.  Bedient  wondered  if  he 
looked  so  badly  as  that.  The  woman  summoned  all  her 
powers  to  compel  his  mind  with  what  was  so  absorbing 
to  her.  He  was  not  a  little  impressed  by  her  exceeding 
kindness.  They  were  seated  opposite  at  a  small  table  in 
the  very  centre  of  the  luncheon-room. 

"  It's  all  right,"  she  said  lightly.  "  Senor  Rey  knows 
I  am  to  have  luncheon  with  you.  We  had  a  long  talk  this 
morning,  and  I  think  I  left  him  in  excellent  spirits. 
.  .  .  Oh,  yes,  he's  an  artist  with  the  probe.  I  didn't 
give  him  a  chance  to  talk  about  you,  because  I  asked  the 
first  questions." 

Her  resourcefulness  was  delightful.  "  A  friend's  for 
tunes  are  truly  safe  in  your  hands,"  he  said.  "  And  now 
please  tell  me  all  about  it." 


TWENTY-EIGHTH   CHAPTER 

A  FURTHER  NOTE  FROM  REY 

"  I  HAD  a  long  mental  work-out  this  morning  in  the 
room  before  breakfast,"  she  began.  "  I  even  thought 
about  what  brings  you  here,  and  about  my  long  talk  with 
the  Glow-worm  last  night,  which  I'll  get  to — if  you  are 
a  very  interested  listener.  After  breakfast,  I  walked  for 
an  hour  in  the  grounds.  Have  you  been  over  to  the  Inlet, 
where  Seiior  Rey's  beautiful  sailing-yacht  lies — the 
Savonarola?" 

"  I've  seen  it  from  the  road,"  Bedient  answered. 

"  A  stairway  goes  down  from  the  bluff  under  the 
road,  a  hundred  steps  or  more  to  the  water  of  the  cove. 
In  fact,  the  tall  spars  of  the  Savonarola  aren't  nearly  so 
high  as  the  level  of  the  bluff.  I  love  a  sailing-ship,  and 
on  the  way  back  I  met  Senor  Rey  in  his  wheel-chair,  and 
told  him  how  the  wonderful  little  harbor  and  his  thor 
ough-bred,  lying  there,  had  appealed  to  me.  He  inclined 
his  head  benignly.  His  yacht,  I  said,  had  the  effective 
lines  of  her  namesake's  profile — and  that  pleased  him. 
Followed,  a  technical  discussion  of  different  sailing-ships 
that  once  swept  the  waters  of  the  world,  I  furnishing  en 
thusiasm  and  a  text-book  inquiry  now  and  then.  This 
brought  not  only  an  invitation  to  sail  within  a  few  days, 
but  also  an  invitation  to  a  private  dinner  this  evening  in 
the  Flamingo  Room,  '  with  Senora  Rey  and  a  few  most 
cherished  guests.'  And — I  must  not  forget — the  Senor 
informed  me  that  his  wife  was  very  fond  of  me.  .  .  . 

"  I  observed  that  the  '  Flamingo  Room '  had  a  most 
enticing  sound.  He  hoped  I  would  find  it  so;  said  the 
idea  was  his  own,  and  that,  to  him,  the  tint  of  a  flamingo 
feather  was  the  fairest  of  all  tints — save  one,  to  be  found 
in  the  cheeks  of  an  American  girl.  I  answered  that  it 
was  very  clear  to  me  now  whose  sense  of  beauty  had 
made  The  Pleiad  and  its  gardens  the  rarest  delight  of  my 
travels." 

283 


284  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Miss  Mallory  regarded  Bedient's  amusement  apprecia 
tively  for  a  moment,  and  went  on  swiftly : 

"  Then  I  walked  beside  his  wheel-chair  through  the 
shadowy,  scented  paths,  and  presently  I  mentioned  you 
and  Colonel  Rizzio  among  the  interesting  people  I  had 
met.  He  declared  you  were  a  true  gentleman — spoke 
feelingly — a  stranger  at  The  Pleiad,  though  not  to  the 
Island.  I  explained  how  you  had  kept  aloof  on  the  ship 
coming  down,  how  you  seemed  to  be  the  prey  of  some 
devouring  grief.  .  .  .  All  that  I  said,  he  regarded 
with  that  terribly  bright  attention  of  his.  It  made  me 
think  of  a  pack  of  hounds  tossing  and  tearing  at  a  morsel, 
the  way  his  faculties  caught  my  sentences,  hounds  playing 
a  hare  at  the  end  of  a  run.  Oh,  devious  and  winding 
are  the  ways  of  the  Spaniard — and  past  finding  out! 
But  I  frankly  confessed  my  interest  in  you,  and  that  you 
were  absolutely  self-contained ;  indeed,  it  was  because  of 
that  I  appealed  to  him.  I  am  sure  he  found  that  my 
sayings  balanced  in  the  most  sensitive  scales  of  his  mind ; 
and  decided  I  was  too  young  to  be  artistic  with  the  fine 
tools  of  untruth. 

"  Finally,  I  asked  about  war,  told  him  the  New  York 
papers  predicted  another  war  in  Equatoria,  and  that  I 
had  never  seen  one.  The  Senor  declared  he  was  very 
sorry  if  my  trip  to  Equatoria  proved  a  disappointment  in 
any  way,  but  he  didn't  see  what  there  was  to  fight  about ; 
that  no  one  deplored  so  much  as  he  the  recent  attempt 
upon  the  life  of  Dictator  Jaffier;  and  as  for  himself,  he 
was  identified  with  all  the  interests  of  Equatoria,  which 
were  moving  forward  exceedingly  well.  .  .  .  Alto 
gether  it  was  an  absorbing  half-hour." 

"  And  now  I  must  tell  you  about  Senora  Rey,"  Miss 
Mallory  continued  hurriedly,  since  they  could  not  be  seen 
talking  together  long.  ..."  She  asked  me  to  come 
to  her  rooms,  and  I  followed  a  servant.  I  couldn't  find 
the  place  now  alone.  A  small  room  in  orange  lamp 
light  !  The  Glow-worm  was  lying  upon  a  tiger-rug ;  very 


A  Further  Note  From  Rey  285 

tall  and  silken  she  looked,  and  her  great  yellow  eyes 
settled  upon  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  her  emotions  had 
no  outlet,  but  turned  back  to  rend  and  devour  each  other. 
I  couldn't  help  thinking-  that  first  moment,  that  some  one 
must  pay  a  big  price  for  making  her  suffer.  Queer, 
wasn't  it?  And  pitiful — how  she  seemed  to  need  me. 
It  is  true,  she  trusted  me  from  the  beginning,  seemed 
dying  to  leap  into  some  one's  heart.  And  she  told  me  her 
story  in  whispered  fragments — heart-hunger,  hatred,  and 
mystery — these  fragments.  I've  really  been  challenged 
to  build  a  character  out  of  her,  and  since  I  thought  about 
her  half  the  night,  I  ought  to  be  able  to  make  you  see 
and  feel  her  story.  I  wonder  if  I  can?  It  came  to  me 
something  like  this : 

"  There  had  been  a  night — ah,  long  ago — in  which 
Senor  Rey  summoned  her  from  her  companions.  It  was 
in  a  house  in  Buenos  Aires.  The  Senor  had  come  to  that 
house  before.  The  Senor  was  always  feared.  He  was 
always  obeyed.  She,  nor  any  of  her  companions,  could 
taste  the  wine  he  bought  for  them.  It  did  not  make 
them  laugh  like  other  wine.  Oh,  yes,  they  drank  it,  but 
they  could  not  taste  the  flavor — with  him  in  the  room! 
.  .  .  On  this  night  the  Senor  had  bade  her  come  with 
him.  She  could  not  answer,  but  obey  only.  She  remem 
bered  how  hushed  her  companions  became  when  she  went 
away  with  the  Senor;  how  strangely  they  had  looked  at 
her — what  helpless  sorrow  was  in  their  eyes.  .  .  . 
Even  now  she  could  see  the  faces  of  her  companions 
gathered  about ;  the  Senor  smiling  at  the  door ;  his  car 
riage  with  black,  restless  ponies  and  shining  lights;  the 
driver  upon  his  seat,  like  to  whom  she  quickly  became — 
never  answering  the  Senor,  and  always  obeying !  .  .  ,. 
Ah,  yes,  there  had  been  a  hush  in  her  house  as  she  left  it, 
but  laughter  in  all  the  other  houses  about ;  and  away  they 
had  driven,  past  the  last  of  the  lights 

"  Such  was  the  tale,  whispered,  overlapped  with  repe 
titions,  a  succession  of  touches  like  that,  done  lightly  but 
with  a  passion — oh,  you  should  have  been  there  to  under- 


£86  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

stand !  The  meaning  of  a  wild,  sad  life  was  in  them.  And 
her  big  yellow  eyes  were  hungry  upon  me.  I  seemed  to 
see  the  vast  South  American  town,  as  old  as  Europe  in 
sin  and  as  new  as  Wyoming  in  heart." 

"  You  make  me  see  it  all,"  Bedient  said. 

"  Can  you  understand  that  the  Glow-worm  is  expiring 
to  get  back  to  that  old  mad  life  ?  "  Miss  Mallory  asked. 

"  Yes,  from  what  you  tell  me  of  her." 

"  It  is  true,  only  it  must  be  so  he  cannot  follow. 
.  .  .  It  must  be  as  it  was  before  he  came — when  she 
could  taste  and  feel  and  see — as  it  was  before  the  chill 
settled  down  upon  her  senses,  before  the  shuddering 
began.  That's  how  she  expresses  it.  ...  She  over 
powered  me  a  little  at  first.  I  was  slow  to  realize  how 
one's  intents  and  sensations  could  be  absolutely  physical. 
I  could  pity,  but  there  was  something  actually  creepy 
about  her.  I  was  inane  enough  to  ask  if  she  could  not 
return  for  a  visit.  She  sank  back  and  shut  her  eyes  and 
clenched  her  hands,  saying: 

"  '  When  he  is  dead  or  when  he  is  tired  of  me,  I  shall 
go  back — not  for  a  visit,  but  to  stay!  He  would  not 
let  me  go  for  a  visit,  and  I  could  not — oh,  I  wouldn't  dare 
to  run  from  him !  Always  I'd  think  him  after  me.  There 
would  be  no  sleep  for  me.  I'd  think  him  after  me — you 
know  how  it  is  in  a  dream,  when  you  are  like  a  ghost — 
all  limp  in  the  limbs,  but  trying  to  run!  It  would  be 
like  that,  if  I  fled  from  him — always  expecting  him  to 
clutch  me  from  behind!  .  .  .  My  God,  if  he  would 
only  make  me  mad !  But  he  won't — he  won't ! ' 

"  '  What  do  you  mean  ? '  I  asked. 

' '  I  mean,'  the  Glow-worm  whispered,  drawing  my 
head  down  to  hers,  '  I  mean  I  would  kill  him.  Oh,  he's 
all  but  dead !  I  could  kill  him  with  my  hands,  if  he  would 
fill  me  with  rage,  so  I  could  forget  his  eyes.  He  is  all 
alive  in  his  eyes!  .  .  .  But  it  shall  never  be.  He 
will  say — do  this  and  come  and  go  and  rest  and  rise, 
and  do  that — and  I  shall  obey  like  the  Chinese.  .  .  . 


A  Further  Note  From  Key  287 

Oh,  tell  me  what  you  would  do,  if  the  Senor  said  to  you, 
looking  right  into  your  skull,  "  Come  with  me  to-night !  " 

"  I  told  her  I  should  laugh  at  the  Senor,  and  suggest 
possibly  that  he  had  drunk  too  much  wine.  She  seemed 
unable  to  comprehend,  and  repeated,  'If  he  should  look 
right  into  your  skull,  could  you  say  that  ? '  I  assured  her 
I  could,  and  she  tried  to  believe,  but  she  concluded  that  I 
only  thought  I  could  be  that  strong. 

"  Then  she  told  me  it  had  been  months  since  she  talked 
to  anyone  without  being  afraid;  that  she  felt  at  once  it 
would  be  safe  to  talk  with  me ;  that  so  much  she  wanted  to 
tell  had  been  shut  up  like  a  swelling  in  her  throat — '  ah, 
God,  so  long  !'...'  And  then  you  would  say  with 
a  laugh — as  you  tell  me,'  the  Senora  went  on,  as  if  mem 
orizing  my  method.  Her  lips  mumbled  and  trailed  the 
words,  so  deep  was  the  effort  of  her  mind.  *  You  would 
say,  "  Senor  Rey,  you  have  drunk  too  much  wine ! "  and 
he  would  answer  with  a  laugh,  too,  "  It  is  true,  no  doubt, 
as  you  say.  I  am  an  old  and  a  very  foolish  man,  my 
dear  Sefiorita  Mallory !  "  and  you  would  smile  and  think 
of  it  no  more.'  The  Glow-worm  laughed  in  a  lost,  mirth 
less  way,  and  held  me  tightly  as  she  finished,  '  But  that 
very  night,  just  the  same,  you  would  find  yourself  with 
him !  And  he  would  laugh  at  you  then  and  say,  coming 
closer,  "  Forgive  an  old  and  foolish  man." ' 

"  I  was  startled  at  the  way  she  said  it,"  Miss  Mallory 
concluded.  '  You  mean  he  would  have  me  anyway  ? ' 
I  said.  ...  *  Yes,'  the  Glow-worm  replied  wearily. 
'  My  lord  gets  what  he  desires — all  but  his  youth — he 
cannot  get  that — and  his  fear  of  hell — he  cannot  get  rid 
of  that !  And  he  is  afraid  to  die ! '  She  spoke  the  last 
triumphantly,  as  if  it  were  the  only  happy  thing  she 
could  think  of.  ...  That  was  last  night — and  that 
is  all.  .  .  .  To-morrow  evening  join  me  in  the  lobby 
a  little  before  eight.  .  .  .  Here  comes  the  servant 
and  we  must  talk  about  orchids — until  I  finish  this, 
sherbet " 


288  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

The  following  evening  Bedient  met  Miss  Mallory  in 
the  main  hall,  and  exceeding  cleverness  was  required 
to  impart  her  information,  as  they  moved  together  among 
the  crowd. 

"  The  handsome  man  is  here.  I  saw  him  last  night/' 
she  said,  without  the  faintest  trace  of  excitement.  "  I 
am  beginning  to  share  some  of  the  Glow-worm's  fear  of 
Senor  Rey.  It's  all  tremendously  thrilling.  The  place 
is  a  mine  of  terrors — all  the  worse  for  this  beautiful  set 
ting  and  the  gardens.  .  .  .  The  Sorensons  are  the 
horrible  Russian  pair.  I  met  them  at  dinner  in  the  Fla 
mingo  Room,  and  after  listening  to  the  Senora,  the  cour 
tesies  of  the  Spaniard  were  like  so  many  cold  shuddery 
waves  of  dread.  Again  last  night,  after  the  dinner,  the 
Glow-worm  drew  me  into  her  boudoir  and  poured  into  my 
ears  months  of  accumulated  toxins  of  hate  and  fear " 

"  I'm  sorry  they  have  frightened  you,"  Bedient  said. 
"  Your  kindness  to  me " 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  really  afraid,"  she  said  hastily.  "  It's 
all  very  wonderful.  The  Senora  repays  me  with  a  most 
devoted  attention — services  of  her  own  hand,  and  not  a 
little  sweet  and  endearing  in  their  way.  .  .  .  Pres 
ently  she  asked  me  if  I  had  met  the  imposing  Senor  Fram- 
tree.  Of  course  I  had  not.  She  said  he  had  been  here  for 
many  weeks,  but  she  had  only  met  him  a  few  times — 
always  with  the  Senor.  .  .  .  '  He  is  the  sort  of  man 
I  am  not  allowed  to  meet  alone,'  she  said  languidly,  her 
eyelids  drawn  against  the  yellow  light.  '  But  I  have  no 
choice — no  choice  here,'  she  went  on,  '  though  I  feel  sorry 
for  him.' 

"  I  asked  why,  and  she  said  he  was  alone  in  a  strange 
country,  and  that  it  was  dreadful  to  be  young — and  alone 
in  a  strange  country.  Plainly  she  had  something  more  to 
say,  so  I  told  her  to  speak  what  was  in  her  mind.  The 
substance  was  that  Mr.  Framtree  had  lasted  much  longer 
than  most,  therefore  he  must  be  a  very  great  artist  with 
the  cards.  Many  men  had  come  with  fortunes  to  The 
Pleiad,  and  most  of  them  were  ready  to  gamble  with  her 


A  Further  Note  From  Rey  289 

lord,  who  invariably  got  their  money  in  the  end.  It  was 
not  only  the  money,  but  he  had  a  vast  pride  in  his  mas 
tery,  and  in  the  house  he  had  built.  It  was  not  possible 
for  him  to  continue  to  lose  any  length  of  time.  Then 
Senora  Rey  informed  me  that  the  two  were  together 
now,  and  if  she  dared,  she  could  show  me  some  things 
about  her  lord's  house. 

"  I  begged  her  to,  though  fearfully,  you  may  believe. 
She  said  it  was  risking  murder  if  we  were  caught,  but  I 
saw  she  wanted  to  show  me.  Also,  I  thought  of  many 
things,  and  it  looked  important — for  one  in  my  capacity 
not  to  miss.  So  I  asked  again.  .  .  .  *  You  see,  I 
can  refuse  you  nothing,'  she  said.  '  I  love  you  for  coming 
to  me.  I  am  a  woman  again — even  young  and  glad.  Be 
fore  you  came,  I  was  a  snake  crushed  at  midday — that 
could  not  die  until  the  dark.' 

"  I  think  the  adventure  really  fascinated  her,  because 
she  hates  the  Sefior  so.  Anyway,  I  followed  through  sev 
eral  inner  rooms  of  oppressive  magnificence  which  the 
Spaniard  reserves  for  his  own  use.  Then  we  entered  a 
corridor.  No  lock  could  be  seen,  but  the  Senora  touched 
the  panel  in  a  certain  way.  It  closed  of  itself  as  we 
entered,  with  the  sound  of  a  lock  indeed — a  heavy,  oiled, 
smooth-running  click,  but  very  soft.  I  hated  to  hear 
it  behind.  The  corridor  was  narrow  and  dim.  It  was 
high,  but  the  thickly  shaded  lamps  were  far  apart  and 
close  to  the  rugs,  so  that  one's  shoes  were  lit,  but  faces 
hardly  recognizable.  Low  voices  mingled  in  a  bewilder 
ing  complication  throughout  the  corridor.  There  was  a 
sliding  ladder  with  carpeted  steps,  which  could  be  pushed 
noiselessly  along  one  wall.  An  arrangement  like  it  is 
used  in  libraries  to  reach  the  upper  shelves.  The  Glow 
worm  was  trembling,  and  squeezed  my  hand  repeatedly 
to  insure  silence,  and  slid  the  ladder  along  nearly  to  the 
end.  I  could  hear  her  quick,  frightened  breathing.  The 
thing  was  locked  by  some  unseen  turn  of  the  Sefiora's 
finger,  and  I  was  directed  to  climb.  Up  three  steps,  and 
I  saw  light  through  the  wall  on  the  level  of  my  eyes. 

19 


290  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Closer,  it  appeared  that  only  a  dark  gauze  almost  trans 
parent  hung  between  me  and  another  room.  The  gauze 
covered  a  slit  plenty  large  enough  to  look  through. 

"  Senor  Rey  and  the  handsome  man  were  facing  each 
other  in  a  dull  green  room.  The  latter's  back  was  toward 
me,  and  a  table  was  between  them,  but  they  were  not  at 
cards.  The  young  man's  profile  was  half-turned  so  I 
could  see,  and  he  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair.  He  lit  a 
cigarette  as  I  stood  there,  and  the  Senor  observed  that  it 
was  sad  to  be  old.  You  could  hear  their  words,  as  clearly 
as  you  hear  mine.  The  Framtree  gentleman  laughed 
softly.  He  has -a  manner,  I  confess.  He  declared  that  he 
didn't  believe  there  was  ever  a  time  when  the  Senor  could 
have  solved  the  problem  at  hand. 

"  The  Glow-worm  was  pulling  at  my  skirts  to  come 
down,  but  I  listened  a  moment  longer.  The  Senor  said 
he  must  have  done  Dictator  Jaffier  an  injustice  all  these 
years  in  considering  him  the  stupidest  of  men.  The  other 
replied  that  '  four  nights  more  '  would  tell  the  story  ;  that 
it  was  irksome  to  wait  even  that  long.  I  had  to  leave, 
for  the  Senora  was  becoming  frenzied,  but  I  caught  one 
more  remark  from  Senor  Rey,  as  mysterious  as  the  rest. 
' But  he'll  be  gone  before  that'  he  said." 

"  What  an  astonishing  bit  of  work ! "  Bedient  ex 
claimed. 

"  We  reached  the  quarters  from  which  we  came — the 
orange  lamplight  room — in  safety,  but  the  Glow-worm's 
face  was  livid  with  fear.  I  suppose  mine  was,  too.  She 
said  the  whole  house  was  so  arranged.  ...  I  told 
her  they  were  not  playing  cards,  and  something  of  what 
I  had  heard.  The  Glow-worm  was  sure  they  were  talk 
ing  about  '  a  young  man,  known  to  be  one  of  the  main 
stays  of  the  government,'  who  had  come  to  stay  at  The 
Pleiad — for  some  incomprehensible  reason.  Evidently, 
she  has  not  seen  you.  .  .  .  What  do  you  suppose  Rey 
meant  by,  '  He'll  be  gone  before  that/ — within  four 
days?" 


A  Further  Note  From  Rey  291 

"  I  don't  appear  able  to  learn  anything  by  myself," 
Bedient  said.  "  It  would  seem  the  best  way — to  wait  and 
see." 

"  Oh,  but  I  wouldn't — please !  ...  Is  it  worth 
that  to  see  this  Framtree,  whom  the  Spaniard  has  prob 
ably  commanded  to  keep  in  hiding?  I  am  afraid — for 
you!  .  .  .  And  the  whole  house,  even  the  sleeping- 
rooms,  are  under  that  devilish  eye.  I  dared  not  turn  on 
the  light  last  night " 

They  parted  after  less  than  twenty  minutes.  Bedient 
did  not  go  in  to  dinner.  .  .  .  To  him,  the  night  was 
but  a  sorry  repetition.  Miss  Mallory's  disclosures  could 
not  long  hold  his  thoughts.  He  had  no  intention  of  tell 
ing  Jaffier  that  something  big  was  to  happen  within  four 
days.  What  was  strangest  was  the  fate  which  made  it 
so  hard  for  him  to  come  into  contact  with  Framtree.  He 
could  not  give  up  this  thing — this  last  link  to  reality.  He 
felt  himself  better  off  here — than  alone  at  the  hacienda. 

This  time,  between  two  and  three  in  the  morning,  he 
was  so  tense  and  animate  that  he  heard  the  soft,  swift 
tread  of  a  Chinese  in  the  hall  and  the  faintest  possible 
rustle  of  a  paper  thrust  under  his  door.  He  waited  a 
moment  before  turning  on  the  light.  ...  It  was  an 
other  missive  from  the  Spaniard,  and  read : 

MY   ESTEEMED   BEDIENT: 

The  request  herein  to  be  set  forth  may  appear  to  you  as  a 
reflection  upon  the  quality  of  my  friendship,  as  it  certainly  is  an 
indication  of  the  force  of  your  personality.  You  are  felt  in  this 
establishment,  my  valued  friend,  like  some  tarrying  Nemesis. 
Permit  me  to  observe,  and  I  am  smiling  as  I  write,  that  you  have 
a  wearing  effect  upon  many  of  my  guests.  Personally,  I  should 
ask  nothing  finer  of  the  Fates  than  the  privilege  to  devote  myself 
exclusively  to  you — but  that  is  impossible  now.  To-morrow  at 
noon  my  servants  will  assist  you  to  any  quarters  elsewhere, 
that  you  may  have  chosen  by  that  time — if,  indeed,  you  are 
staying  longer  in  Coral  City.  Believe  me,  when  a  certain  tension 
is  lifted,  my  house  will  be  open  to  you  again,  as  is  always  the 
heart  of 

CELESTINO  REY. 


TWENTY-NINTH   CHAPTER 

AT  TREASURE  ISLAND  INN 

THE  morning  rode  in  grandly  upon  the  sea.  Bedient 
was  early  below,  and  overtook  Miss  Mallory  in  the  gar 
dens.  She  seemed  particularly  virile.  A  pair  of  Senora 
Key's  toy-spaniels  were  frisking  about. 

"  These  are  not  my  favorite  kind,  but  I  like  dogs," 
she  said.  ..."  How  men  reveal  their  earth-binding ! 
A  laugh  is  enough — or  a  fear,  a  word,  a  convention — and 
you  have  a  complete  discovery  of  limitations." 

Bedient  fell  into  her  mood.  "  And  what  manner  of 
man  would  he  be  who  could  keep  hidden  from  such  very 
old  and  very  wise  eyes  his  covering  of  clay  ?  " 

"  First,  he  would  be  without  vanity,"  she  said  readily. 
"  Then,  he  would  do  noble  things  thoughtlessly  and  un- 
watched.  He  wouldn't  be  dollar-poisoned,  nor  could  he 
fail  to  help  all  who  are  poor  and  whipped,  whether  wicked 
or  not.  And  he  would  have  enough  intelligence  to  enfold 
mine,  so  I  wouldn't  be  constantly  banging  against  his 
walls.  ...  In  a  word,  he  would  be  great  without 
knowing  it.  Do  you  think  I  ask  a  great  deal  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  should  like  him,"  Bedient  answered. 

"  And  now  what  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  quickly.  They  had 
turned  upon  the  main-drive,  away  from  the  trees.  "  I 
can  see  you  have  something  to  say." 

"  I  shall  take  up  lodgings  for  the  next  few  days  in  the 
city  below — at  Treasure  Island  Inn.  Senor  Rey  has 
ordered  me  out  of  The  Pleiad." 

Her  face  colored  instantly,  and  yet  she  said,  "  I'm  very 
glad  to  hear  it.  At  least,  you  will  be  safe  in  Treasure 
Island  Inn." 

"1  had  not  considered  that,  Miss  Mallory,  though 
I've  a  great  respect  for  all  that  you  think  important. 
...  I  still  intend  to  see  Jim  Framtree — and  before 


At  Treasure  Island  Inn  293 

the  end  of  '  the  four  days '  spoken  of  night  before  last. 
The  fact  is,  I  have  nothing  else  to  do.  Celestino  Rey 
may  mean  to  start  his  rebellion  then,  so  there  is  only 
to-morrow  and  next  day.  It  would  be  next  to  impossible 
for  me  to  meet  this  man  with  hostilities  begun." 

She  was  quite  astonished  at  this  stir  of  action. 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  anything  more?  "  Her  appeal  was 
penetrating. 

"  Only  that  I've  got  to  see  him.  It's  not  to  do  him 
harm,"  he  said.  "  The  story  isn't  altogether  mine.  .  .  . 
I  can't  help  laughing  at  this  move  of  Senor  Key's — and 
yet " 

"  It  hurts,  doesn't  it?  "  she  urged. 

"  Not  exactly  that,  but  it  makes  me  all  the  more  de 
termined  to  get  to  Framtree." 

"  I'm  glad  if  it  does  hurt,"  she  said  hastily.  "  You 
look  like  death,  but  the  apathy  is  gone.  Even  red  rage  is 
better  than  that.  I  think  you  are  better.  It  was  about 
your  illness — that  I  wanted  you  to  tell  me.  .  .  . 
Good-by." 

"I  hope,"  Bedient  said  suddenly,  "that  Rey  isn't 
afraid  of  you — that  you  are  clear  from  the  impulse  that 
made  him  send  me  downtown." 

"  I've  been  careful.  .  .  .  I'll  help,  if  I  can.  Good- 
by.  .  .  .  Aren't  '  good-bys '  hideous  ?  .  .  .  But 
we  can't  be  too  careful.  ...  At  Treasure  Island  Inn?" 

"  Yes,  and  where — you  couldn't  call !  " 

"  But  I  shall  know  where  you  are." 

Bedient  returned  to  his  rooms,  and  Miss  Mallory  re 
sumed  her  walk.  .  .  .  An  hour  and  a  half  later, 
Bedient  walked  out  of  the  big  gate  of  The  Pleiad,  and 
down  to  the  city.  .  .  .  For  the  first  time  in  several 
days,  Celestino  Rey  breathed  long.  Assassination  was 
only  one  of  the  things  he  had  feared.  .  .  . 

Forty-eight  unavailing  hours  passed  in  Treasure 
Island  Inn.  This  night  would  bring  an  end  to  the  mys 
terious  four  days.  Bedient  was  at  bay  before  the  rem- 


294  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

nant  of  what  had  been  and  hoped.  To  his  own  eyes,  he 
was  an  abject  failure  now,  even  in  these  physical  affairs — 
he  who  had  dared  to  arraign  New  York  workers  in 
almost  every  aspect  of  their  life !  The  last  beacon  of  his 
spirit  was  blown  out  in  the  storm ;  his  mind  had  long  since 
preyed  upon  itself,  the  pith  gone  from  it,  through  drifting 
in  dark  dream-tides ;  and  now  he  who  had  been  trained 
from  a  boy  to  physical  actions  weakly  succumbed  before 
the  old  Spaniard's  will  and  strategy.  Yet  he  could  not 
find  it  within  him  greatly  to  care. 

Treasure  Island  Inn  had  interested  him  at  first,  not 
so  much  through  its  exterior  contrast  to  The  Pleiad 
(which  was  complete  enough  for  any  city  to  furnish), 
but  because  its  wretchedness  in  the  sense  of  money-lack 
was  less  than  in  its  moral  poverty.  Its  evils  were  so  open 
and  self-reviling;  its  passages  so  angular,  so  suggestive 
of  blood-drip  and  brooding  horror;  its  rooms  so  peeled, 
meagre  and  creaking — depravity  so  sincere.  Crime  cer 
tainly  had  not  been  spared  around  the  world  to  furnish 
its  living  actors  for  Treasure  Island  Inn.  All  the  ragtag 
was  there — not  a  lust  nor  a  mannerism  missing. 

And  now  that  life  had  cast  him  into  this  place,  Bedient 
found  himself  utterly  unable  to  contend  with  the  squalor 
of  fact  and  mind ;  indeed,  he  was  quite  as  ineffectual  as 
he  had  been  in  the  midst  of  the  glittering  deviltry  of  The 
Pleiad.  .  .  .  Abased  before  realities ;  lost  to  the 
meaning  of  every  excellence  of  his  life-training ;  shattered 
by  psychic  revolts  ;  his  brain  reflecting  the  strange  mirages 
and  singing  the  vague  nothings  of  starvation — but  enum 
eration  only  dulls  the  picture!  In  every  plane  of  his 
nature,  he  was  close  to  the  end,  forty-eight  hours  after 
his  arrival  at  the  Inn  of  the  lower  city. 

Certain  things  had  become  mature,  irrevocable:  That 
he  was  a  superfluous  type  in  this  Western  world  of  his 
birth ;  that  Beth  Truba  had  left  the  highway,  where  pass 
the  women  of  earth,  to  enter  his  most  intimate  environs 
and  possess  him  entirely ;  that  passing  on,  she  had  left 


At  Treasure  Island  Inn  295 

but  the  stuff  of  death.  The  time  had  been  when  he  would 
have  depreciated  in  another  man  the  utter  weakness  into 
which  he  had  fallen. 

Bedient  unearthed  a  companion  at  Treasure  Island 
Inn,  one  whom  he  did  not  doubt  for  an  instant  to  be  the 
chief  of  Key's  agents  assigned  to  watch  his  every  move 
ment.  But  even  as  a  spy,  old  Monkhouse  had  helped  him 
to  sit  tight,  during  that  forty-eight  hours.  For  Monk- 
house  talked  alluringly,  incessantly, — and  asked  only  to 
be  with  the  stranger — and  many  a  time,  all  unknowing, 
he  banished  for  the  moment  some  devouring  anguish  with 
a  tale  of  disruption  told  to  a  turn.  The  Island  did  not 
hold  more  loyal  devotion  than  his  for  Dictator  Jaffier, 
to  hear  Monkhouse  tell  it;  and  how  Celestino  Rey  had 
reached  his  ripe  years,  with  such  hatred  in  the  world,  was 
by  no  means  the  least  of  Equatorian  novelties.  .  .  . 
Here  was  a  desperado  in  the  sere,  shaking  for  the  need 
of  drink,  when  he  first  appeared  to  Bedient.  On  the  final 
forenoon  of  the  latter's  stay  at  the  Inn,  he  sat  with  Monk- 
house  in  the  big  carriage  doorway  on  the  street-level. 
The  old  man  was  elaborating  a  winsome  plan  to  capture 
the  Spaniard  at  sea;  and  though  Bedient  mildly  inter 
posed  that  he  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  Celestino 
if  he  had  him, — the  conspiracy  was  unfolded  nevertheless : 

"  You're  a  good  lad,"  Monkhouse  communed.  "  I 
belave  in  you  to  the  seeds.  C'lestin' — an'  may  Heaven 
deefin'  the  walls  as  I  speak  his  name — has  nine  an* 
seventy  ways  of  makin'  off  with  you.  Boy,  I've  known 
the  day  in  these  seas  when  he'd  do  it  for  practice.  But 
he's  old  now  an'  tender  of  hear-rt.  He  laves  it  to  your 
good  sense  to  lave  him  alone.  'Tis  well,  you  trusted  no 
one  save  old  Monkhouse.  Adhere  to  it,  lad,  or  I'll  be 
mournin',  one  of  these  gay  mornin's,  with  you  gone — an* 
your  name  on  no  passenger  list  save — what's  the  name  of 
that  divil  of  a  pilot — Charybdus  ?  " 

"Charon?" 

"  True  for  you,  lad.    Charon  it  is.    What  with  drink 


296  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

an'  the  sinful  climate,  I've  forgot  much  that  many  niver 
knew." 

Monkhouse  winked  his  red  lashless  lids,  and  meditated 
the  while,  as  he  pressed  the  juice  of  an  orange  into  the 
third  of  a  cup  of  white  rum,  and  stirred  in  a  handful  of 
soggy  brown  sugar. 

"  Hark  to  you,  boy — come  closer,"  he  whispered  pres 
ently.  "  Nothin'  that  sails  in  these  par-rts  can  scrape  the 
paint  of  the  Savonarola.  At  the  same  time,  you  can  do 
nothin'  by  stayin'  ashore.  What's  the  puzzle?  'Tis  this, 
lad :  you  must  get  one  of  thim  gasolin'  launches  that  move 
like  the  divil  and  smell  like  the  sleepin'  sickness!  You 
can  get  one  at  the  Leeward  Isles  betchune  here  an'  sun 
down.  .  .  .  Listen  now,  come  back  in  good  time, 
standin'  on  your  own  deck,  with  old  Monkhouse  for  a 
mate,  and  three  or  four  clane-eyed  American  boys  lookin' 
for  adventures — an'  hang  out  at  sea  waitin'  for  the 
Savonarola.  God  save  the  day  whin  he  comes !  We'll 
meet  him  on  the  honest  seaboard  in  the  natural  way, 
where  he  can't  spring  the  tricks  of  The  Pleiad,  nor  use 
the  slather  of  yellow  naygurs  that  live  off  the  cold  sweat 
of  him " 

Hereupon  Monkhouse  drained  his  already  empty  cup, 
the  sign  that  another  sirocco  was  sweeping  his  throat. 
His  mind  wandered  until  it  was  brought :  "  Many  a  man's 
soul  has  filtered  up  through  salt-water  off  these  shores, 
lad,  because  he  talked  less  of  his  memories  than  his 
troubles — but  you  won't  betray  me,  boy!  .  .  .  My 
Gawd,  lad,  to  have  C'lestin'  in  the  hold  under  me  feet — 
as  he  wanst  had  me — but  let  that  pass — or  lyin'  deeper 
still  under  the  Savonarola  with  the  fishes  tuggin'  at  his 
carcass.  Ah,  'tis  deep  fathims  under  the  Savonarola,  me 
lad " 

Bedient  had  not  been  listening  for  a  moment.  A 
carometa  was  moving  slowly  toward  him,  down  the  Calle 
Real,  and  he  fancied  the  flutter  of  a  handkerchief  from  its 
side  window.  It  was  nearly  noon.  The  dazzle  of  sun- 


At  Treasure  Island  Inn  297 

light  upon  the  glass  of  the  carometa  was  in  his  eyes,  so 
he  could  not  see  the  face  within,  but  a  slim  hand  signaled 
again.  The  vehicle  approached  with  torturing  slowness 
until  the  dazzle  flickered  out  and  he  hurried  forward  tc 
greet  Miss  Mallory,  whose  face  blanched  at  the  sight  of 
him. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  would  fall ! "  she  whispered. 
"  But  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again " 

"  I  was  just  going  to  say  it.  ...  It's  been  dull — 

and  I  haven't  done "  He  opened  the  door  of  the 

carometa. 

"  Quickly,  they're  watching  from  your  house,"  she 
managed  to  say  between  commonplaces,  "pick  up  that 
crumpled  letter  at  my  foot!  .  .  .  But  it  won't  do  for 
you  to  follow  the  suggestion  in  it — you're  not  able !  " 

"  If  there's  anything  to  do,  I'm  able,"  he  declared, 
tucking  the  paper  into  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

"  We  miss  you  at  The  Pleiad,"  she  said  with  her 
usual  animation.  "  I  wish  I  had  time  for  a  good  talk 
now,  but  I'm  actually  rushed  to-day.  I'll  see  you  again, 
though " 

Bedient  sauntered  back  smiling,  and  sat  down  with 
Monkhouse  for  a  little  space.  The  eyes  he  saw  were 
large,  red-rimmed  and  troubled ;  tales  and  conspiracies 
flagged  miserably.  Bedient  chaffed  him  for  having  be 
come  incoherent,  and  left  shortly  for  his  own  room,  where 
he  pressed  out  two  of  the  thinnest  possible  sheets  of  paper, 
closely  written  on  both  sides,  and  made  them  his  own  to 
the  least  detail: 


DEAR  MR.  BEDIENT: 

I  hardly  know  how  to  begin,  I  am  so  excited  and  have  so 
much  to  say.  (The  letter  was  dated  less  than  two  hours  before.) 
Senor  Rey,  the  Glow-worm,  the  couple  known  as  "  the  Soren- 
sons,"  Mr.  Framtree  and  myself  are  sailing  to-night  on  the 
Savonarola.  There  will  also  be  Chinese,  probably  three,  two  to 
manage  the  yacht  and  one  for  the  cabin.  I'm  not  quite  sure, 
but  I  think  we  are  to  have  supper  aboard.  I  have  been  aboard 


298  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

the  yacht.  The  cabin  takes  up  a  large  part  of  the  hold.  There 
are  two  doors  forward.  The  one  to  the  left  opens  into  the 
galley,  and  the  one  to  the  right  opens  into  the  forecastle,  where 
there  are  three  berths  for  the  crew,  a  few  ship's  stores,  piles  of 
cordage,  tackle,  chains,  etc.  The  berths,  of  course,  will  not  be 
occupied  this  trip,  as  we  plan  to  be  out  only  a  few  hours,  and  the 
sailors  will  be  on  deck. 

There  is  a  fine  place  for  concealment  in  this  forecastle. 
(Possibly  under  the  lower  bunk;  numerous  bedding-rolls  lying 
about  might  be  pulled  in  after  one.)  The  difficulty  will  be  in 
getting  aboard.  There  is  but  a  single  companion-way  to  the 
cabin.  It  will  not  be  locked  this  afternoon  early,  but  doubtless 
there  will  be  a  servant  or  two  making  ready  for  the  sail.  Pro 
visions  will  be  boarded  this  afternoon,  as  Senor  Rey  is  a  bountiful 
entertainer.  It  may  happen  that  the  Chinese,  in  loading  the 
provisions,  will  be  a  considerable  distance  off,  or  even  up  the 
steps  to  the  cliff,  for  moments  at  a  time.  This  is  the  random 
chance  I  think  of. 

The  undergrowth  is  dense  on  the  steep  slopes  which  jut 
down  to  the  water  of  the  Inlet.  One  might  conceal  oneself 
there,  and  await  the  offered  chance,  not  more  than  twenty  or 
thirty  feet  from  the  cabin  door.  This  is  the  really  discouraging 
part  of  the  whole  preliminary,  but  I  may  be  able  to  assist  you 
further  at  the  proper  time.  There  seems  absolutely  no  other  way 
to  arrange  an  interview  for  you  with  Mr.  Framtree. 

As  for  me,  I  have  learned  much  at  The  Pleiad.  The 
Spaniard's  systems  are  infamous — a  fact  that  has  been  terribly 
impressed  upon  me.  I  shall  lose  my  home  in  The  Pleiad,  but  this 
is  the  last  of  the  mysterious  "  four  days."  It  will  be  better  and 
safer  for  me  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  war  after  this,  from 
the  side  of  the  Defenders. 

A  dangerous  step,  but  I  shall  take  the  chance  of  the  sail, 
even  if  you  decide  that  your  part  is  too  uncertain.  In  any  case 
be  very  sure  to  destroy  this  letter.  If  it  should  fall  into  the 
hands  of  Key's  innumerable  agents, — I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't 
come  back  from  the  party.  There  is  operating  in  the  city  as 
well  as  in  The  Pleiad  as  perfect  a  system  of  espionage  as  one 
would  encounter  in  the  secret  service  of  a  formidable  nation. 

Safely  secreted  in  the  forecastle  during  the  early  afternoon, 
you  could  not  fail  to  hear,  some  hours  later,  a  signal  tapped  on 
the  deck  forward.  This  signal  would  come  after  supper,  when 
it  was  dark,  and  everything  propitious  as  possible.  The  sailing 
party  would  be  divided  at  this  time,  say  half  on  deck  and  half 
below.  The  signal — three  double  taps — "  tap-tap  .  .  .  tap-tap  .  .  . 


At  Treasure  Island  Inn  299 

tap-tap  "—given  sharply,   unmistakably,  with   a  heavy  cane  or 
something  of  the  kind. 

Emerging  from  the  forecastle  (with  a  look  and  a  command 
behind,  as  if  to  your  hidden  compatriots),  it  would  seem  that 
you  would  have  the  occupants  of  the  cabin  rather  neatly  at  your 
mercy.  If  the  affair  there  were  attended  by  luck,  and  managed 
quietly  enough,  you  might  continue  and  surprise  the  deck  party, 
but  let  us  not  rely  too  far  upon  fair  chances.  There  is  a  strong 
flavor  of  danger  about  the  coup  at  best.  I  do  not  consider  here 
any  aid  which  I  may  render ;  so  that  you  are  one  against  eight — 
three  white  men,  three  (?)  Chinese,  and  two  women. 

I  have  reasons  for  helping  you. 

You  seem  to  want  this  meeting,  and  I  believe  war  is 
imminent.  Let  me  impress  upon  you:  Take  every  precaution; 
think  out  every  possible  step  before  joining  action.  Senor  Rey 
is  a  cultivated  criminal.  Sorenson  may  prove  dangerous.  Fram- 
tree  looks  big  enough  to  laugh — if  he  is  cornered.  The  Chinese 
are  Chinese. 

I  am  writing  at  crazy  speed.  You  should  have  this  by  noon, 
and  lose  no  time  after  that.  Oh,  yes,  the  Savonarola  carries  two 
small  boats.  If  the  surprise  is  successful,  these  boats  may  be 
useful  to  eliminate  the  Chinese  and  the  Sorensons.  You  will  be 
armed,  of  course.  I  am  just  adding  thoughts  at  random.  A 
little  red  chalk-mark  on  the  white  frame  of  the  companion-way 
will  tell  me  that  you  are  aboard,  if  I  should  miss  seeing  you. 

Yours  in  excitement,  but  not  without  hope, 

ADITH  MALLORY. 

I  know  what  you  can  do. 


THIRTIETH   CHAPTER 

MISS  MALLORY'S   MASTERY 

BEDIENT  felt  the  blood  warming  in  his  veins.  This 
was  the  last  of  "  the  four  "  nights.  Miss  Mallory's  deter 
mination  to  sail  with  the  Spaniard  was  enough  to  spur 
him  to  attempt  joining  her ;  if,  indeed,  his  absolute  need 
to  break  the  deadly  ennui  had  not  banished  hesitation. 
He  glanced  through  the  letter  again,  and  burned  it. 

"  Monkhouse,"  he  said  below,  "  I've  had  about  enough 
of  Coral  City  this  time,  and  I'm  riding  back  toward  the 
hacienda  this  afternoon.  I'm  leaving  a  little  present  for 
you  with  the  management  of  the  Inn.  Some  time  I'll  send 
a  pony  trap  down  for  you,  when  I'm  hungry  for  more 
tales " 

The  old  man  was  more  mystified  than  ever,  but  the 
business  of  the  Spaniard  had  to  wait  until  he  hunted  up 
the  management,  with  whom  his  relations  had  worn  thin. 
Bedient  found  his  servant,  ordered  the  ponies,  and  the 
two  rode  up  Calle  Real,  before  one  in  the  afternoon. 
They  passed  The  Pleiad  bluffs,  overlooking  the  Inlet, 
where  the  Savonarola  lay,  and  on  for  a  mile  or  more 
into  the  solitude.  Here  Bedient  sent  forward  his  servant 
with  both  ponies  and  let  himself  down  the  bluff  to  follow 
the  shore  back. 

The  sand  was  white  as  paper  and  hot  as  fresh  ashes. 
The  muscles  of  his  face  grew  lame  from  squinting  in  the 
vivid  light.  There  was  not  a  human  being  in  sight  on 
either  length  of  curving  shore,  nor  a  movement  in  the 
thickly  covered  cliffs.  The  world  was  silent,  except  for 
the  languorous  wash  of  the  little  waves  and  the  breathing 
of  a  soft  wind  in  the  foliage.  For  an  hour  he  made  his 
way  mostly  under  cover  around  the  shore  to  the  mouth  of 
the  Inlet,  from  where  he  could  see  Jaffier's  gunboat  on 
the  watch. 

300 


Miss  Mallory's  Mastery  301 

The  distance  was  about  a  thousand  yards  back  to 
v/here  the  yacht  lay.  The  cut  was  a  natural  stronghold, 
opening  sidewise  on  the  face  of  the  shore,  so  as  to  be 
invisible  from  the  open  water.  It  was  deep  enough  for 
an  ocean-liner,  but  too  narrow  for  a  big  steamer  to  enter 
with  her  own  power.  Bedient  turned  into  the  thick, 
thorny  undergrowth,  which  lined  the  eastern  wall  of  the 
Inlet,  and  made  his  way  around  its  devious  curvings, 
silently  and  slowly.  The  growth  on  the  cliffs  was  so 
dense  in  places  that  he  had  to  crawl.  The  heat  pressed 
down  upon  the  heavy  moist  foliage,  and  drained  him  like 
a  steam-room.  He  had  wobbled  from  weakness  and 
the  heat  in  the  saddle,  even  on  the  breezy  highway. 
Again  and  again,  he  halted  with  shut  eyes  until  his  reel 
ing  senses  righted.  The  thousand  yards  from  the  mouth 
of  the  cove  to  the  moorings  of  the  Savonarola  wound  like 
a  Malay  creese  with  an  interrogation  point  for  a  handle. 
The  distance  consumed  an  hour,  and  much  of  the  vitality 
he  had  summoned  by  sheer  force  of  will.  He  lay  panting 
at  last  in  the  smothering  thicket,  thirty  feet  from  the  rear- 
deck  of  the  Savonarola.  Yet  there  was  a  laugh  in  his 
mind.  It  was  altogether  outlandish,  when  he  considered 
his  small  personal  interest  in  such  an  affair.  .  .  .  He 
thought  of  the  listening  eyes  of  Beth  Truba — had  he  told 
her  of  such  an  adventure  of  his  boyhood.  .  .  .  And 
.he  thought  of  the  clever  and  intrepid  Adith  Mallory,  and 
what  she  had  meant  by  the  last  added  line  of  her  letter, 
"  I  know  what  you  can  do." 

Someone  was  already  aboard,  for  the  cabin-door  was 
open.  The  sliding  hatch  connected  with  the  thick  upright 
door,  so  that  a  single  lock  sufficed  for  the  cabin,  which 
opened  from  the  aft-deck.  The  still,  deep  water  of  the 
cove  drew  Bedient's  eyes  constantly,  and  kept  alive  the 
thought  of  his  terrible  thirst.  The  words  of  old  Monk- 
house  repeated  often  in  his  brain,  "  Ah,  'tis  deep  fathims 
under  the  Savonarola."  He  slipped  a  little  steel  key  from 
the  ring,  smiling  because  it  was  the  key  to  one  of  the 


302  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Carreras  cabinets  at  the  hacienda,  and  placed  it  in  his 
mouth.  He  had  done  the  same  with  a  nail  when  in  the 
small  boat  with  Carreras,  the  only  boat  that  reached 
shore  from  the  Truxton.  It  started  the  saliva. 

There  was  but  one  man  in  the  cabin  so  far,  as  Bedient 
ascertained  through  the  ports, — a  Chinese,  and  he  was 
sweeping  industriously.  Miss  Mallory's  idea  that  he 
steal  in,  while  the  boat  was  being  provisioned,  seemed  a 
far  chance.  He  might  have  boarded  the  craft  now,  and 
surprised  the  oriental  in  the  cabin,  but  he  had  no  grudge 
against  him,  and  Key's  Chinese  were  not  purchasable. 
He  thought  of  the  forlorn  last  chance — to  creep  back  to 
the  mouth  of  the  Inlet  where  it  was  narrowest,  and  wait 
on  a  sheltered  ledge  there  for  the  Savonarola  to  be  ejected 
with  pikes  from  the  crooked  mouth.  He  might  leap  on 
the  deck  as  she  swung  around,  but  he  would  then  have 
to  face  the  whole  party. 

After  an  interminable  period — it  was  past  three  in 
the  afternoon — the  Chinese  appeared  from  a  cabin,  and 
sat  down  on  the  low  rail  aft,  mopping  his  shaven  head. 
"  I  don't  wish  you  any  harm,  little  yellow  man,"  Bedient 
thought,  "  but  you'd  be  most  accommodating  if  you  would 
fall  into  a  faint  for  a  minute  or  two " 

At  this  juncture,  Bedient  was  startled  by  the  clapping 
of  hands  from  somewhere  up  the  winding  steps  toward 
The  Pleiad.  The  Chinese  leaped  up  to  listen  for  a  repe 
tition  of  the  signal,  which  his  kind  answers  the  world 
over.  The  hands  were  clapped  again,  and  then  the  voice : 

"  Oh,  Boy,  won't  you  come  up  here  for  a  moment  ? 
I'm  afraid  to  climb  down  all  these  steps  alone  with  this 
big  package.  It  must  be  put  aboard  for  to-night." 

"The    unparalleled    genius "    Bedient    breathed. 

The  Chinese  understood,  and  stepped  ashore  quickly. 
Bedient  began  to  roll  forward  with  the  first  movement 
of  the  boy.  The  red  chalk  mark  would  hardly  be  needed. 
He  had  just  torn  his  finger  upon  a  thorn.  Seeing 


Miss  Mallory's  Mastery  303 

the  blood  rise,  it  occurred  that  one  is  never  without  a  bit 
of  red.  At  the  base  of  the  bank  he  turned  his  eyes 
upward.  The  Chinese  was  plodding  up  the  stairs,  the 
woman  holding  his  mind  occupied  with  words. 

Bedient  leaped  across  to  the  deck,  and  sank  into  the 
cabin  of  the  Savonarola.  From  the  shaded  roomy  quarter 
then,  he  ventured  a  last  look.  John  Chinaman's  broad 
back  was  still  toward  him,  and  Miss  Mallory  was  laugh 
ing.  "  How  good  of  you !  "  she  said  to  the  boy.  "  The 
steps  looked  so  many  and  so  rickety,  and  I  was  all  alone. 
Here's  a  peso  for  you.  We'll  be  aboard  about  six." 
She  laughed  again. 

"  What  a  bright  light  to  shine  upon  a  man !  "  Bedient 
thought,  as  he  covered  his  bleeding  finger  with  a  hand 
kerchief,  to  avoid  leaving  a  trail  in  the  spotless  cabin. 
He  moved  forward  toward  the  right  compartment,  un 
steadily;  then  entered  and  closed  the  door. 

This  was  Adith  Mallory's  especial  afternoon  and 
evening.  She  was  emphatically  alive.  One  of  her  dearest 
desires,  and  one  which  had  long  seemed  farthest  from  her, 
was  to  do  some  big  thing  for  Andrew  Bedient.  The  plan 
was  hers,  every  thought  of  it,  and  now  she  saw  him 
safely  stored  in  the  forecastle. 

She  tried  to  put  away  all  thoughts  of  fear.  The  party, 
of  which  she  was  the  blithest, — ah,  how  she  loved  sail 
ing  ! — stepped  on  board  at  six.  Framtree  was  brought  to 
the  meeting.  Celestino  Rey  was  beguiled  from  his 
Pleiad  throne,  and  helped  to  a  seat  in  this  floating-  Elba. 
Here,  too,  came  the  Sorensons  and  the  Chinese — mob- 
stuff.  There  is  a  mob  in  every  drama — poor  mob  that 
always  loses,  of  untimely  arousings,  mere  bewildered 
strength  in  the  wiles  of  strategy.  Poor  undone  mob — its 
head  always  in  the  lap  of  Wit,  to  be  shorn  like  Samson. 
.  .  .  And  the  Glow-worm — that  incomparable  female 
facing  the  South,  her  great  yellow  smoldering  eyes,  filled 


304  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

with  the  dusky  Southern  Sea,  and  who  knows  what  lights 
and  lovers  of  Buenos  Aires,  flitting  across  her  dreams? 
.  .  .  Had  there  been  absolute  need  for  an  ally,  Miss 
Mallory  could  almost  have  trusted  the  Senora. 

"  We  didn't  care  to  heat  up  the  cabin  from  the 
galley,"  Senor  Rey  declared  as  they  descended  for  sup 
per,  "  so  I  have  had  our  repast  prepared  at  The  Pleiad, 
save,  of  course,  the  coffee.  You  will  not  miss  for  once 
the  entree,  if  the  cold  roast  fowl  is  prime,  I  am  sure. 
There  are  compensations." 

"Miss  an  entree!"  Miss  Mallory  exclaimed.  "I 
could  live  a  week  on  pickles  and  lettuce-leaves,  to  stay 
at  sea  in  such  weather ! " 

"  Astonishingly  fine  sailor  is  Miss  Mallory,"  the  Span 
iard  enthused.  "  She  talked  ship  with  me  like  a  pirate, 
and  knew  my  Savonarola  from  boom  to  steering  gear  at 
a  glance.  You  all  must  thank  Miss  Mallory  for  our  little 
excursion  to-night." 

The  lady  in  question  wondered  if  the  forecastle-door 
were  proof  against  the  voices  in  the  cabin.  She  did  not 
turn  her  eyes  to  it,  but  happened  to  note  that  the  Spaniard 
caught  a  glance  from  Jim  Framtree,  as  he  spoke  his  last 
words;  also  that  Framtree  arose,  looked  aft  from  the 
cabin  doorway,  and  turned  back  with  a  smile.  Miss  Mal 
lory  followed  his  eyes  a  "moment  later  and  discovered  that 
Dictator  Jaffier's  gunboat  had  moved.  Steam  was  up; 
her  nose  was  pointed  their  way ;  more  still,  she  was  leis 
urely  trailing!  Senor  Rey  did  not  miss  the  American 
woman's  interest. 

"  The  Dictator  is  always  so  good  about  giving  the 
'Savonarola  armed  convoy,"  he  said. 

Miss  Mallory  became  deeply  thoughtful,  but  roused 
herself,  realizing  it  did  not  become  her  in  this  company. 
She  imagined  that  the  great  yellow  eyes  of  the  Glow 
worm  were  regarding  her  with  queer  contemplative  scru 
tiny.  Sorenson  felt  the  call  to  remark  something,  and  the 
Savonarola  was  obvious. 


Miss  Mallory's  Mastery  305 

"  Fine  little  craft  for  a  honeymoon,"  he  observed, 
"  that  is,  of  course,  if  the  lady  in  question  enjoyed  sailing. 
It's  amusing  to  picture  some  women  on  a  sailing-trip " 

"And  some  men  on  a  honeymoon,"  added  Miss 
Mallory. 

This  delighted  Framtree.  .  .  .  Sorenson  was 
rather  a  ponderous  Slav  with  languages.  He  was  not 
accustomed  to  conserve  his  thirst  until  dinner-time.  In 
deed,  he  had  brought  aboard  on  this  occasion  an  apprecia 
tion  for  sparkling  refreshments,  that  had  been  assiduously 
cultivated  during  the  long  day.  Already  Sorenson  had 
endangered  his  domestic  peace,  through  attentions,  deli 
cate  as  you  would  expect  from  a  bear  that  walked  like 
a  man.  These  were  directed  toward  the  American 
woman.  She  broke  every  shaft  with  unfailing  humor,  and 
girded  her  repugnance  as  added  strength  for  the  End. 
There  were  moments  she  did  not  relish.  Strain  settled 
with  the  darkening  day.  She  thought  of  the  face  she 
had  seen  at  her  carriage  at  noon — a  tortured  face — and 
what  he  had  passed  through  since,  cramped  in  the  fore 
castle  !  Perhaps  he  was  unconscious  from  the  heat  and 
the  suffocating  place — and  from  the  illness  she  could 
never  understand.  .  .  .  But  in  Miss  Mallory  all 
these  thoughts  and  conditions  drew  upon  as  perfect  a 
nervous  organization  as  could  be  found  anywhere  in  these 
complicated  days — and  it  was  over  at  last. 

Sorenson  and  his  wife  followed  her  on  deck  after 
supper,  the  other  three  tarrying  below.  There  was  no 
moon.  The  breeze  abaft  the  beam  was  a  warm,  steady 
pressure  that  coaxed  a  whispering  of  secrets  from  the 
sails,  and  sent  the  willing  craft  forward  with  her  bow 
down  to  work,  and  a  business-like  list.  One  Chinese 
was  serving  below.  The  remaining  two  were  squatted 
aft  by  the  wheel.  Madame  Sorenson  took  a  chair  on  the 
cabin-deck,  amidship.  Miss  Mallory  moved  past  her  and 
forward.  The  thought  in  her  brain  was :  If  Sorenson  fol 
lows  me  now,  anything  that  should  happen  to  him  is  his 

20 


306  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

own  fault.  She  carried  playfully  a  heavy  cane,  found  in 
the  cabin.  Sorenson  embraced  his  own  disaster  in  joining 
her. 

"  How  enticing  the  water  looks !  "  she  observed. 

"  It  does  'pon  my  word,"  said  the  Russian. 

Each  noted  that  the  foresail  hid  the  face  of  Madame 
Sorenson,  although  her  shoulders  were  expressive. 
.  .  .  The  look  upon  Sorenson's  flushed  features  held 
Miss  Mallory  true  to  her  latest  inspiration. 

"  You  are  a  good  swimmer  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  lowered 
tone,  but  carelessly. 

"Ah,  yes,  there  are  many  grand  swimmers  in  my 
country  among  the  coast  men." 

"  You  must  have  been  on  shipboard  a  great  deal,  Mr. 
Sorenson.  .  .  .  One  can  always  tell  by  the  way  one 
acts  on  a  small  craft.  Many  are  afraid  at  first  of  the 
low  gunwales  on  a  yacht  like  this." 

Miss  Mallory  felt  the  disgust  of  Madame  Sorenson 
for  them  both;  felt  it  was  deserved. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Miss  Mallory,"  he  declared,  delighted  with 
her  and  himself  and  the  world. 

He  raised  one  foot  to  the  railing,  and  his  manner  be 
came  all  the  more  at  home,  as  he  lifted  his  cigar  with  a 
flourish.  "  Like  our  host,  I  have  sailed  many  seas  and 
not  a  few  with  him,"  he  added. 

He  was  standing  close  to  the  rail,  directly  over  the 
forecastle.  Miss  Mallory  drew  a  step  or  two  nearer,  and 
announced,  as  if  such  a  remark  had  never  been  thought 
of: 

"  What  a  perfect  little  thing  of  her  kind  the  Savona 
rola  is!  ...  I  believe  she  is  staunch  enough  to  go 
anywhere.  .  .  .  Just  listen  how  tight  and  solid  her 
planking  is ! " 

She  would  have  signaled  that  instant,  but  her  approach 
had  been  Sorenson's  cue  for  a  certain  fond  attention  and 
endearment,  which  ended  in  a  briny  obfuscation.  .  .  . 

It  had  been  such  a  little  push,  too.    She  tossed  a  life- 


Miss  Mallory's  Mastery  307 

ring"  after  him,  saw  him  come  up  and  catch  his  stroke — 
as  she  tapped  the  deck  with  her  stick — the  three  doubles 
sharply.  .  .  . 

And  now  a  sunburst  of  small  but  striking  events. 
Madame  Sorenson  had  not  seen,  but  she  launched  a 
scream  with  the  splash.  The  Chinese,  squatted  aft,  had 
not  seen,  but  like  good  servants,  with  well-ordered  minds, 
they  rushed  from  the  wheel  to  the  davits,  and  proceeded 
to  get  a  small  boat  into  the  water,  a  temperate  thing  to  do 
with  a  man  overboard.  Miss  Mallory  did  not  scream,  so 
as  to  disturb  anybody,  but  hurried  aft,  urging  the  Chinese. 
"  Both  go !  "  she  called.  "  He's  such  a  big  man !  " 

The  boat  was  launched.  Sorenson  was  swimming — 
his  oaths  proved  that — but  rapidly  receding.  The  Glow 
worm  rushed  out  of  the  cabin,  Framtree  following.  The 
latter  halted,  however,  at  a  sharp  command  of  the  Span 
iard.  Then  Miss  Mallory  heard  Bedient's  voice.  It  was 
not  lifted  above  the  normal  tone,  and  hoarse  with  thirst. 

She  craned  her  head  forward  from  the  wheel  to  peer 
into  the  cabin.  Bedient's  face  was  like  death.  He  did 
not  even  have  a  pistol  in  his  hand,  but  there  was  a  look  in 
his  eyes  she  had  never  seen  in  any  eyes  before,  and  he 
was  smiling.  The  disturbance  on  deck,  Bedient's  face 
and  command,  had  held  Rey  and  Framtree,  but  the  for 
mer's  hand  now  reached  toward  his  hip.  Bedient  caught 
it  with  an  incredibly  quick  movement,  and  took  the  gun 
from  the  Senor's  pocket. 

"  Just  to  reduce  tension  to  a  minimum,  Senor,"  he 
said. 

The  third  Chinese  opened  the  door  from  the  galley, 
but  a  look  and  gesture  from  Bedient  sent  him  back,  and 
the  lock  was  turned  upon  him.  Bedient  now  placed  the 
gun  upon  the  table,  and  directed  his  attention  to  Framtree. 

"  You  made  it  rather  hard  for  me  to  have  a  talk  with 
you,  my  iriend,"  he  said. 

The  place  was  terrible  with  strain.    .    .    . 

There  had  been  a  moment,  as  the  Spaniard's  hand 


308  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

crept  to  his  pocket,  in  which  Miss  Mallory  was  powerless 
with  fear,  but  she  could  not  scream.  It  was  as  if  Bedient's 
eyes  had  held  her,  too.  She  watched  the  pistol  now.  It 
was  out  of  Key's  reach,  and  he  could  not  rise  from  a  chair 
without  great  difficulty.  Framtree  did  not  seem  to  be 
armed,  for  which  she  was  greatly  attracted  to  him. 
.  .  .  He  had  started  to  speak  two  or  three  times,  but 
found  no  words.  The  appearance  of  Bedient  seemed  to 
have  fascinated  him  for  a  moment,  but  now  he  managed 
to  declare: 

"  It  must  have  been  the  Chinese  who  turned,  Senor. 
.  .  .  Somebody  went  overboard — I  think  Sorenson." 

And  not  until  now  did  Miss  Mallory  venture  to  take 
her  eyes  from  the  cabin  interior.  .  .  .  Madame 
Sorenson  was  fighting  windmills  of  hysteria.  Far  back 
there  was  a  blotch  in  the  darkness,  and  a  curious  blend 
of  sea-water,  Russian  and  Chinese,  as  Sorenson  was 
dragged  into  the  boat ;  back  farther  still  the  lights  of 
Jaffier's  gunboat.  .  .  .  And  now  she  found  the 
Glow-worm  staring  at  her,  the  big  face  drawing  closer, 
and  a  rising  flame  of  hope  in  the  strange  eyes. 

"What  have  you  done,  dearest?"  she  questioned 
softly. 

"  He  could  swim.  He  told  me  he  could  swim,"  Miss 
Mallory  heard  herself  repeating  vaguely. 


THIRTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

THE  GLOW-WORM'S   ONE  HOUR 

SORENSON  and  the  two  Chinese  were  now  eliminated. 
Senor  Rey,  disarmed,  was  not  a  physical  menace; 
third  Chinese  was  locked  in  the  galley;  in  a  sense 
Bedient  and  Framtree  equalized;  Madame  Soren- 
son  was  having  trouble  to  overcome  her  own  hysteria; 
and  Adith  Mallory  uncovered  no  hostility  in  the  Glow 
worm — quite  the  opposite.  Framtree  answered  Bedient: 

"  I  suggested  to  the  Senor  that  he  let  me  see  you, 
but  he  thought  to  the  contrary.  He  is  my  commanding 
officer.  ...  As  for  you,  Bedient,  all  I  have  to  say 
is  that  you  carry — a  maniac's  luck.  I  think — I  think  if 
you  hadn't  looked  so  like  a  dead  man,  Senor  Rey  would 
have  done  the  natural  thing,  as  you  came  forth  from  the 
forecastle."  .  .  .  The  big  chap  glanced  at  the  pistol 
on  the  table.  "  What  is  it  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

Again  and  again,  in  the  stifling  forecastle,  Bedient 
had  swooned  from  the  heat,  the  vile  air  and  his  utter 
weakness.  Only  he  had  nailed  to  his  brain  surfaces, 
through  terrific  concentration,  an  expectancy  for  Miss 
Mallory's  signals ;  otherwise  they  would  have  failed  to 
rouse  him.  He  had  come  forth  more  dead  than  alive,  with 
only  a  glimmering  of  what  he  was  to  do,  until  he  saw 
the  hand  of  Celestino  Rey  move  toward  his  pocket.  Then 
a  strange  jolt  of  strength  shook  him,  and  he  had  the 
pistol.  It  was  like  that  day  on  the  Truxton.  Afterward 
he  heard  the  words  of  Miss  Mallory  insisting  that  Soren- 
son  could  swim,  and  amusement  helped  to  clear  his  con 
sciousness.  A  queer  sense  that  he  was  not  to  lose  in  these 
lesser  affairs  possessed  him;  that  enough  strength, 
enough  intelligence  would  be  given,  a  peculiar  inner 
sustaining  which  he  was  odd  enough  to  accept  as  authori 
tative.  ,  .  .  And  now  he  heard  Framtree's  words, 

309 


310  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

and  a  water-bottle  on  the  table  beside  the  pistol  magne 
tized  his  eye.  He  poured  out  a  glassful  and  drank,  and 
the  thought  came — apart  from  his  listening  to  Framtree — 
if  only  other  agonies  could  be  eased  with  the  swift 
directness  of  his  thirst-torture  that  moment. 

"  I  wanted  you  to  go  back  on  the  H at t eras,  Mr.  Fram 
tree,"  he  said.  "  The  Henlopen  won't  sail  for  a  week. 
We  won't  lose  sight  of  each  other,  so  there  is  time.  As 
for  our  talk,  we  must  be  alone." 

The  words  crippled  Framtree's  hostility,  but  he  did 
not  forget  Rey.  It  was  a  hard  moment  for  him. 

"  One  wouldn't  think  you  had  a  week — to  judge  by 
the  chances  you  took  in  turning  this  trick  to-day,"  he  said. 

The  Spaniard's  bony  shoulders  sank  a  little  in  his 
lids  dropped  for  an  instant. 

"  You  proved  so  hard  to  reach  in  these  days  of  prep 
aration,"  Bedient  replied,  "  that  I  feared  I  might  fail 
altogether  in  case  of  eventualities.  And  we  had  reason 
to  think  that  to-night  marked  the  end  of  Equatorian 
peace." 

Rey  moistened  his  lips,  watching  Framtree,  but  did 
not  speak. 

"  It  must  be  damned  important,"  Framtree  said. 

"  It  is,"  Bedient  answered,  and  the  American  woman 
listening  intently  at  the  wheel  did  not  miss  the  change 
in  his  voice. 

Meanwhile  the  yellow-brown  face  of  the  Spaniard  had 
scarcely  altered,  except  perhaps  that  the  pallid  scar  had 
a  bit  more  shine  about  it.  His  eyes  moved  around  the 
cabin,  darting  often  at  the  pistol,  halting  upon  the  knob 
of  the  forecastle-door  in  the  fear  that  others  might  be 
concealed  there;  inscrutable  black  brilliants,  these  eyes, 
and  to  the  woman  at  the  wheel  the  cabin  was  evil  from 
their  purgatorial  restlessness.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he 
(Started,  and  commanded  Framtree: 

"  See  to  the  ship's  course !  " 

"  It's  all  right,  Senor  Rey,"  Miss  Mallory  called.    "  I 


The  Glow-worm's  One  Hour  311 

can  hold  her.  We're  scudding  along  beautifully,  and  our 
convoy  is  keeping  pace " 

The  Spaniard's  bony  shoulders  sank  a  little  in  his 
chair.  He  interpreted  this,  as  did  Framtree,  as  an  order. 
It  was  his  first  positive  assurance  that  the  American 
woman  was  against  him. 

'  But  the  Chinese,  Miss  Mallory "  he  said,  with 

rare  control. 

"  Oh,  they  have  picked  up  Mr.  Sorenson.  .  .  . 
They  can  see  the  light  at  the  point  of  the  Inlet.  Mr. 
Sorenson  will  need  a  change  of  clothing " 

There  was  a  laugh  from  Framtree,  rich,  ripping,  in 
fectious.  It  released  accumulations  of  fever  and  strain 
from  all  but  the  Spaniard,  who  joined  nevertheless. 
.  .  .  Bedient  stood  somewhat  rigidly  by  the  table. 
Waves  of  mist  alternated  with  intervals  of  clear  percep 
tion  in  his  mind. 

Miss  Mallory  had  entered  into  reaction.  The  laugh 
of  Jim  Framtree  was  the  only  good  omen  to  her.  She 
wasn't  quite  so  afraid  of  him  after  that.  ...  As  for 
the  wheel,  the  situation  was  not  nearly  so  blithe  as  she 
had  represented  to  Rey.  The  Savonarola  had  changed 
course,  while  the  Chinese  were  getting  the  small  boat 
overside.  The  Inlet  had  been  astern  and  a  little  to  star 
board  then.  She  had  wondered,  at  the  time,  at  the  course, 
because  Captain  Bloom  of  the  Hatteras  had  shown  her 
how  the  reefs  stretched  out,  forming  a  great  breakwater 
for  Coral  City  harbor,  and  the  Savonarola  had  seemed  to 
be  making  for  trouble.  .  .  .  She  jumped  with  a 
thought  now.  Perhaps  Rey  had  intended  to  run  over  the 
'coral  with  his  lighter  craft,  or  perhaps  he  knew  a  lesser 
passage;  and  thus  elude  Jaffier's  gunboat,  or  strand  the 
latter  upon  the  reefs.  .  .  . 

The  Inlet  light  was  now  straight  to  port,  but  the 
breeze  was  brisker,  and  she  hated  the  thought  of  losing  it. 
She  had  handled  the  tiller  of  small  craft,  but  would  not 
have  dared  to  bring  around  the  Savonarola  with  her  vast 


312  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

sweep  of  sail,  even  had  she  cared  to  regain  the  original 
course.  .  .  .  Bedient  could  not  hold  these  two  men  at 
bay  all  night.  He  looked  as  if  he  might  fall  any  moment. 
And  now  he  had  postponed  his  talk  with  Framtree.  This 
was  beyond  her.  She  had  counted  upon  him  for  a  mes 
sage  that  would  make  Framtree  his.  She  did  not  realize 
the  meaning  of  the  few  words  already  spoken.  There 
might  be  pistols  secreted,  where  Framtree  could  find 
them.  One  shot  and  she  was  alone.  .  .  .  Bedient  did  not 
even  adequately  care  for  the  pistol  he  had.  There  was  a 
large  stain  of  red  upon  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat, — a 
coat  that  had  been  white  in  the  morning,  but  now  grimed 
from  the  forecastle.  The  stain  terrified  her.  .  .  . 
Where  was  the  voyage  to  end  ?  Certainly  they  could  not 
go  back  to  The  Pleiad  Inlet,  nor  over  the  reefs  to  the 
main  harbor;  and  this  strain  could  not  last.  These  were 
bits  of  her  furious  thinking  during  the  last  few  moments, 
while  Bedient  stood  beside  the  table  like  a  freshly  risen 
Lazarus.  .  .  .  The  Glow-worm  moved  past  her,  as 
a  sleep-walker  might  have  done,  murmuring  that  she  must 
have  a  glass  of  wine  or  die.  Madame  Sorenson  moaned 
at  being  left  alone,  and  followed  the  Senora  into  the  cabin. 
And  now  Senor  Rev  asked  blandly : 

"  Why  don't  you  send  the  two  ladies  ashore  also, 
Miss  Mallory?  There  is  an  extra  boat — also  an  extra 
Chinese — " 

"  You  won't  do  that,  dear?  "  The  Glow-worm  turned 
back  to  her  with  a  horrified  look.  Her  tone  was  not  to  be 
forgotten. 

"  No,  Senora,"  Miss  Mallory  answered.  "  It  is  well 
to  have  at  least  one  small  boat." 

"  Excellent  wisdom,  I  am  sure,"  said  Rey,  as  his  eyes 
settled  upon  the  Glow-worm. 

She  drained  a  glass  of  wine,  and  sank  into  a  chair  in  a 
still  huddled  fashion.  There  was  something  unnatural 
in  the  fixed  inclination  of  her  head.  She  had  betrayed 
herself,  and  watched  Rey  now  out  of  the  corners  of  her 


The  Glow-worm's  One  Hour  313 

eyes — and  in  dissolving  fear — quivering  under  his  stare 
and  voice.  Madame  Sorenson  was  sitting  near,  dazed 
from  sensational  expenditure,  her  lips  moving  without 
sound.  There  was  something  hideous  in  the  tension,  and 
in  the  whole  cabin  arrangement.  Framtree  had  taken  a 
seat  across  the  aft  doorway.  He  could  turn  from  the 
woman  at  the  wheel  to  the  light  with  a  movement  of  his 
head.  He  appeared  to  be  much  mixed  in  mind  and 
resigned  to  await  developments.  Bedient  stood  silently 
watching  these  changes  of  position.  Miss  Mallory  felt 
she  must  scream  before  many  minutes.  She  wanted 
Bedient  to  know  all  the  fears  that  distressed  her,  but 
dared  not  speak  lest  she  betray  the  weakness  of  their 
position  as  she  saw  it.  Once  she  thought  Framtree  was 
laughing  at  her. 

"  What  a  pleasant  little  party ! "  Rey  remarked  at 
length.  "  Too  bad  you  can't  join  us,  Miss  Mallory." 
And  now  he  turned  to  Bedient  with  a  scornful  laugh : 
"  Why  don't  you  use  your  men  in  the  forecastle  to  man 
the  ship,  and  relieve  the  lady  at  the  wheel  ?  " 

"  They  are  off  watch,  Sefior,"  Bedient  said,  smiling. 

"  How  tired  they  are !  How  silently  they  rest !  "  the 
Spaniard  replied  softly,  and  his  long  hands  caressed  each 
other. 

Framtree  glanced  from  Bedient  to  Miss  Mallory,  who 
realized  with  added  dread  that  the  forecastle  bubble  was 
pricked.  She  wondered  how  he  had  conveyed  the  impres 
sion  that  others  were  behind. 

"  Better  let  me  help  you  with  the  wheel,  Miss  Mal 
lory,"  Framtree  said,  decently  enough. 

"  No." 

"  Shall  I  get  you  a  glass  of  wine  ?  " 

"  No." 

Rey  seemed  to  have  caught  a  sudden  hope.  At  least, 
Miss  Mallory  imagined  so ;  and  that  he  tried  to  cover  it 
with  words. 

"  Mr.  Bedient,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "  I  do  not  wish  to 


314  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

under-rate  your  genius  in  the  least,  but  I  should  like  to 
pay  a  compliment  to  your  remarkable  fellow- worker." 

"  I  have  several  to  pay,  as  well,  Senor." 

"  I  should  be  glad  for  her  to  hear,"  Rey  added. 

"  If  you  mean  me,"  Miss  Mallory  called,  "  I  am  listen 
ing  intently." 

The  Spaniard  leaned  forward,  appearing  to  cover  his 
eyes  with  his  fingers.  Miss  Mallory  could  hardly  restrain 
a  scream  for  Bedient  to  look  out  for  the  pistol,  but  nothing 
happened.  Senor  Rey  sat  back  and  began  reminiscently : 

"  I  was  sailing  and  garnering  in  these  waters  before 
either  of  you  men,  and  certainly  before  any  of  the  women 
present,  were  alive.  I  made  Equatoria  interesting,  and  a 
delightful  place  to  live.  I  have  met  in  the  old  days,  some 
times  in  strategy,  sometimes  in  open  warfare,  the  most 
crafty  and  daring  seamen  the  world  could  send  to  the 
Caribbean.  All,  to  the  last  man,  I  have  overmatched  in 
strength  and  cleverness.  A  ship  has  at  last  changed 
hands  beneath  my  feet.  It  is  well.  I  have  lived  long  and 
am  content.  Only,  I  wish  to  say  that  it  is  a  bright  pleas 
ure  to  think  that  no  man,  however  brilliant  or  daring, 
outgeneraled  me — but  a  delightful  American  girl." 

"  It's  a  tribute  that  I  shall  always  remember,  Senor," 
Miss  Mallory  responded,  "  and  one  that  comes  from  a 
master  of  his  profession." 

Out  of  this  pleasantry  brewed  a  change.  The  Span 
iard  stared  from  face  to  face  for  several  seconds.  What 
came  over  him  cannot  be  told — a  break  in  his  fine  con 
trol  ;  a  sudden  realization  that  he  was  whipped ;  a  resur 
gence  of  all  the  shattered  strategies  in  his  brain,  many 
of  which  certain  others  of  the  party  did  not  yet  under 
stand;  his  doubt  of  Framtree,  or  his  inability  to  reach 
the  weapon, — the  exact  point  which  goaded  him  to  black 
disorder  was  never  known,  but  the  fury  of  it  concentrated 
upon  the  Glow-worm.  Her  mortal  fear  attracted  it. 

The  look  he  turned  upon  her  was  demoniacal,  harrow- 


The  Glow-worm's  One  Hour  315 

ing  as  a  dream  of  hell.  All  else  stopped — words, 
thoughts,  even  hearts.  Miss  Mallory  craned  down  to  see. 
The  Sorenson  woman  panted  as  one  dying  of  thirst. 
The  Senora  shrank  back.  Her  face  seemed  dim,  fallen, 
but  she  could  not  lose  his  eyes.  Rey  was  speaking,  lean 
ing  forward  in  his  chair,  and  heaping  words  upon  her 
like  clods  upon  a  corpse: 

"...  But  to-night,  things  were  spoken  which 
could  only  have  come  to  them — through  you !  Celestino 
Rey  has  been  outgeneraled  by  a  clever  American  girl, 
but  he  has  also  been  betrayed  by  a  South  American  cat — 
the  tortoise-shell  of  a  bagnio-litter " 

Both  white  men  commanded  him  to  stop.  The  Span 
iard  turned  a  glance  from  Framtree  to  Bedient.  .  .  . 
The  woman  at  the  wheel,  straining  downward,  saw  the 
Glow-worm  rise  with  an  appalling  shudder,  as  the  eyes  of 
her  lord  left  her;  saw  her  body  huddle  forward  toward 
him,  her  hands  fumbling  in  her  hair. 

"  My  dear  Bedient,"  the  Spaniard  was  saying,  "  I 
regret  this  domestic  scene.  You  must  excuse  a  man  who 
has  so  recently  discovered  his  Glow-worm  to  be  a 
scorpion " 

The  crouching  figure  of  the  woman — in  the  rage  she 
had  prayed  for,  and  as  she  had  prayed  for  it,  with  his  eyes 
turned  away — hurled  forward  as  one  diving  into  the  sea. 
The  flying  body  seemed  huge  in  the  little  cabin.  The 
concentration  of  her  weight  struck  him  in  the  throat.  His 
head  whipped  back  like  a  flaunted  arm.  The  chair  had 
been  screwed  to  the  floor,  but  the  weight  of  impact  ripped 
the  fastenings  out  of  the  heavy  planking.  Backward  Rey 
was  borne,  beneath  a  stabbing  creature  whose  cries  were 
as  some  bestial  mystery  of  the  dark. 

It  was  Framtree  who  tore  her  loose,  and  tightened 
upon  her  wrist  until  the  fingers  opened  and  the  little 
knife — concealed  how  long  in  her  hair? — dropped  like  a 
feather  to  the  carpet.  Swiftly  it  had  let  out  the  life  of  the 


316  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Spaniard.  .  .  .  Bedient  opened  the  galley-door  at  a 
gesture  from  the  woman.  The  Chinese  came  forth. 

"  It  was  I — your  mistress,  Boy — who  killed  the 
Senor.  You  may  look.  Then  fix  him  quickly,  so  he  will 
sink.  I  want  him  to  sink !  "  she  panted. 

Bedient  waited  for  Framtree  to  look  up.  The  eyes 
of  the  two  men  met. 

"  The  first  and  last  chance  of  war  in  Equatoria  is 
eliminated,"  Bedient  said. 

Presently  he  moved  out  of  the  cabin,  and  sat  down 
beside  Miss  Mallory.  Each  had  held  out  a  hand  to  the 
other,  but  they  had  not  words. 

The  place  was  being  made  clean  within.  .  .  .  The 
Glow-worm  could  not  be  silent,  muttered  constantly  to 
the  Chinese.  "...  You  shall  go  back  to  South 
America  with  me.  I  shall  be  very  good  to  you.  .  .  . 
Oh,  do  open  some  wine,  Boy !  I  am  so  very  thirsty !  "  and 
on,  until  she  saw  the  face  of  Framtree,  moodily  watching. 
She  sank  into  a  chair  shuddering,  and  covered  her  face. 
"  Don't  look  at  me  so  horribly !  "  she  cried.  "  Ask  Senor- 
ita  Mallory  about  it — ask  her  about  me." 

He  jerked  up,  but  did  not  answer  at  once.  The 
Glow-worm  screamed  at  him  to  speak. 

Framtree  crossed  the  cabin,  and  dropped  his  huge 
hand  upon  her  shaking  shoulder. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,  Senora.  ...  It  was  a 
matter  between  you  and  him.  .  .  .  But  I'm  glad  to 
help  you.  It  bowled  me  over  a  little,  that's  all." 

His  voice  was  big  in  the  hush  that  had  fallen  upon  the 
cabin.  .  .  .  Framtree  helped  the  Chinese  carry  forth 
the  weighted  body.  .  .  .  As  it  paused  for  an  instant 
on  the  gunwale,  the  searchlight  from  Jaffier's  gunboat 
flicked  athwart  the  Savonarola — sinister  tableaux  in  its 
ghostly  light.  .  .  .  Without  a  sound  the  Glow-worm 
fell  backward  to  the  cabin  floor,  as  if  touched  by  the 
finger  of  the  Destroying  Angel. 


The  Glow-worm's  One  Hour  317 

Bedient  worked  upon  her  until  consciousness  was 
restored. 

"What  next  in  this  terrible  night?"  Miss  Mallory 
asked  in  an  awed  voice,  when  Bedient  rejoined  her. 

"  Such  an  end  has  hung  over  him  for  more  years  than 
we  have  lived,"  he  said.  "  I  call  it  rather  wonderful — 
as  it  came  about.  Hundreds  of  men  will  continue  to  live 
because  of  this  death.  It  means  an  end  of  war-making, 
the  release  of  this  turbulent  spirit." 

Bedient  turned  to  the  light.  She  saw  the  red  stain 
upon  the  breast  of  his  coat. 

He  glanced  down,  and  felt  in  the  inner  pocket.  "  It's 
the  red  chalk,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  "  It  got  crushed 
somehow,  and  it  was  oily.  The  forecastle  melted  it." 

.  .  .  Plainly  at  this  moment  they  both  heard  the 
sound  of  a  steamer's  screw — ahead.  But  there  were  no 
lights.  Bedient  took  the  wheel  and  brought  the  Savona 
rola  sheering  away  to  the  south  of  the  sound,  which  had 
stopped  abruptly. 

Nothing  was  seen,  not  even  a  denser  shadow  in  the 
moonless  dark.  Framtree  joined  them,  and  they  waited 
expectantly  for  Jaffier's  index  of  light  to  pick  up  the 
mystery.  Ten  minutes  passed  before  the  gunboat,  follow 
ing  doggedly,  and  whipping  her  light  over  sea,  suddenly 
uncovered  the  dark  from  a  big  tramp  steamer,  aimed  at 
the  Inlet.  For  an  instant  it  was  lost  again,  but  the  search 
light  swept  back,  groped  until  the  tramp  was  caught,  aad 
this  time  held — in  all  her  unlit  wickedness. 

"  Framtree,"  said  Bedient,  "  I  believe  we  are  about 
to  lose  our  convoy " 

"  Looks  that  way,"  Framtree  replied.  "  Miss  Mal 
lory  has  steered " 

"  Miss  Mallory  has  steered — Equatoria  off  a  revolu 
tionary  shoal,"  Bedient  finished. 

"  You  mean  the  Senora ?  "  Miss  Mallory  inter 
vened. 


318  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  No." 

"  I'm  very  tired  and  stupid ;  please  tell  me  in  little 
words,"  she  pleaded. 

"  You  changed  the  ship's  course  ?  " 

"  I  didn't.  It  changed  itself.  I  didn't  dare  to  change 
back,  because  of  the  reefs,"  she  added  hastily.  "  Didn't 
the  Senor  mean  to  run  the  convoy  aground  if  they  didn't 
give  up  the  chase?  " 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  Bedient  said.  "  Mr.  Fram- 
tree,  hadn't  you  better  explain  to  Miss  Mallory  ?  " 

"  No,  that's  for  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  correct  me  if  I  am  wrong.  .  .  . 
The  black  tramp  yonder  was  making  for  The  Pleiad  In 
let,  with  a  cargo  of  guns  and  ammunition  for  the  rebel 
lion.  The  little  sailing-trip  of  Senor  Rey  was  designed  to 
pull  the  gunboat  afar  off  in  the  Southwest,  the  original 
course,  as  you  say,  to  permit  the  tramp  to  make  the  Inlet 
unmolested.  Jaffier  won't  need  the  guns,  but  they're  a 
moral  force " 

"  As  a  war  correspondent,"  Miss  Mallory  remarked, 
"  I  am  rather  a  spectacular  failure." 

"  It's  a  boy's  game,"  said  Bedient. 


THIRTY-SECOND   CHAPTER 

IN  THE  LITTLE  ROOM  NEXT 

THEY  sailed  around  open  water  until  daybreak,  when 
Bedient  brought  the  Savonarola  into  a  river-mouth  on 
Carreras  land,  and  forcing  her  in  out  of  the  current, 
dropped  anchor.  The  small  boat  was  launched  and  pulled 
ashore.  Six,  a  silent  and  weary  six,  they  were.  The 
hacienda  was  five  miles  inland.  Bedient  sent  natives 
there  for  saddle-ponies,  and  made  the  party  comfortable 
until  these  were  brought.  The  roads  would  not  permit 
vehicle  of  any  sort,  and  though  saddling  was  an  ordeal 
for  the  Glow-worm  and  Madame  Sorenson,  the  distance 
was  not  great,  and  from  every  eminence  there  were 
flashes  of  morning  glory  upon  the  endless  company  of 
hills. 

Falk  and  Leadley  stood  upon  the  great  porch  as  the 
cavalcade  drew  up.  They  steadied  and  leaned  upon  each 
other  in  this  climacteric  moment  of  their  service.  .  .  . 
There  was  breakfast  with  Carreras  coffee,  and  the  party 
separated  for  rest.  The  still  torrid  day  became  more 
vivid,  and  the  native  women  and  children  hushed  one  an 
other  under  the  large  open  windows.  .  .  .  Miss  Mai- 
lory  was  last  in  the  breakfast  room.  Bedient  saw  that 
she  wanted  to  speak  with  him,  and  they  walked  out  on 
the  porch  together. 

"  You  say  it  will  be  six  days  before  the  Henlopen 
leaves  for  New  York  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  and  no  Pleiad  for  you,  Miss  Mallory.  There 
will  be  changes  and  disorder  down  in  the  city.  .  .  . 
I'll  make  you  comfortable  as  I  can." 

"  Oh,  I'll  like  that !  It's  so  still  and  restful— and— 
from  here — last  night  seems  ages  behind.  ...  It 
would  have  been  unbearable,  but  for  what  you  said  about 
the  other  men's  lives  saved.  Then  the  GlQw-worm  had 

310 


320  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

told  me  so  much!  He  was  unspeakable.  ...  As  for 
Sorenson,  I  just  couldn't  have  done  that  had  I  thought 
of  sharks  first!  ...  I  wonder  what  Rey  meant  to 
do — just  before  .  ,  .  yes,  yes,  let's  forget  him! 
.  .  .  When  you  are  rested,  there  is  something  I  have 
to  tell  you." 

"  And  there  is  something  for  me  to  say — but  now  ?  " 
he  questioned. 

"  I  want  you  to  let  me  take  care  of  you — during  the 
six  days " 

The  old  feminine  magnetism  thrilled  him  again.  It 
was  so  strange  and  unexpected  from  Miss  Mallory — a 
breath  from  the  old  Dream  Ranges.  It  quickened  him 
to  the  race  of  women,  even  to  the  great  work,  as  he  had 
not  been  quickened  since  the  night  he  looked  back  at 
the  empty  open  door.  .  .  .  He  did  not  speak,  but  held 
out  both  hands  to  her. 

"  I  think  you  are  living  and  moving  at  this  moment," 
she  went  on  fervently,  "  upon  some  strange  force  that 
other  people  do  not  have.  Since  we  left  New  York,  I 
have  watched  you — seen  you  almost  every  day.  You  are 
like  a  traveler  who  has  crossed  some  terrible  and  forbid 
den  land.  You  do  not  eat  nor  sleep.  I  must  help  you. 
Please  let  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  isn't  as  if  I  were  a  girl ! 
I've  worked  with  men — done  a  man's  work  among  the 
newspapers.  I'd  call  it  bigger  than  all  that  has  happened 
for  the  good  fortune  of  Equatoria — if  I  could  make  you 
look  as " 

She  checked  the  tumult  of  words.  There  was  a  misty 
look  in  her  eyes — and  his.  He  smiled  and  held  himself 
hard,  to  say  steadily : 

"  A  man  doesn't  often  win  so  dear  a  friend " 

"You  have  found  about  me  so  much  of  humor  and 
scheming,"  she  said  pathetically,  "  but  since  I  came  to 
understand  a  little,  I've  wanted  to  show  you  other 
things " 

"  I  could  not  have  relished  your  humor,  nor  used  your 


In  the  Little  Room  Next  321 

plans,  had  I  not  felt  so  much  besides."  He  pointed 
over  the  shining  lands.  "  Great  good  can  come  from  all 
this — perhaps  you'll  help  me — where  the  suffering  is 
blackest  in  New  York.  With  that  big  tramp  steamer  in 
The  Pleiad,  and  Celestino  in  command,  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  save  this.  You  did  it " 

"  If  I  did,  it's  not  vital  to  you.  It  does  not  bring  you 
rest.  How  clearly  I  see  that !  " 

Bedient  turned  aside  from  her  tearful  searching  eyes. 
He  was  facing  the  old  battle;  and  yet  a  certain  uplift 
came  from  her  brave  spirit.  It  was  one  of  the  big  inti 
mate  warmths  of  the  world,  one  of  the  fine  moments  of 
life  in  the  world.  Her  giving  was  true.  He  could  think 
of  no  other  who  could  have  helped  him  in  this  way,  save 
Vina  Nettleton.  These  two  had  not  entered  his  mind 
together  before.  And  they  were  unlike  in  every  way, 
except  in  their  pure  quality  of  giving. 

"  Please  tell  me  that  other  matter  now — why  you  were 
so  good  to  me,  even  on  the  steamer  ?  " 

"  But  I  want  you  to  rest." 

"  I  would  rest  better " 

Miss  Mallory  looked  up  at  him  for  a  moment,  and 
embarrassment  came  to  her  face— different  from  any 
look  of  hers  before. 

"  It  was  in  New  York.  ...  I  wore  a  white  net 
waist  and  a  big  bunch  of  English  violets,"  she  said, 
watching  him.  "  It  seems  very  long  ago,  but  it  isn't — 
hardly  ten  weeks.  There  was  darkness  and  Hedda  was 
telling  young  Lbvborg  to  drink  wine  and  get  vine-leaves 
in  his  hair " 

"And  you  were  the  one?"  Bedient  said. 

" '  So  fleet  the  works  of  men,  back  to  their  earth  again, 
Ancient  and  holy  things  fade  like  a  dream,' " 

she  repeated. 
"  I  remember." 

"  And  do  you  remember  the  first  scream  ?    ...    If 
21 


322  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

I  were  a  lost  and  freezing  traveler  in  Siberia,  the  first 
cry  of  a  gathering  wolf-pack  could  not  have  more  terror 
for  me  than  that  scream.  And,  I  can  hear  the  snapping  of 
the  chair-backs  still,  hideous  secrets  from  human  lips,  and 
the  scraping,  panting,  packing.  I  was  hurt  in  the  first 
crazy  rush.  I  crushed  the  violets  to  my  lips  to  keep  out 
the  smoke  and  gas.  .  .  .  Then  your  voice,  '  Now's 
the  time  for  vine-leaves,  fellows, — there's  a  woman  for 
everyone  to  help!'  I  heard  you  laugh  and  challenge  the 
men  to  their  best  manhood.  .  .  .  And  all  the  time,  I 
thought  I  was  dying.  .  .  .  Then  your  foot  touched 
me,  and  I  heard  you  say,  '  Why,  here's  a  little  one  left  for 

fe-.  »   j  j 

"  Your  hair  had  come  undone,"  he  said  softly. 

"  And  you  never  looked  under  the  violets " 

"  I  went  back  to  look  for  you.  I  wasn't  gone  a 
minute,  but  you  had  vanished." 

"  They  took  me  away  in  the  car — then  I  thought  of 
the  story  and  I  didn't  see  you  again,  until  you  brushed  by 
me  in  the  Dryden  ticket  office  in  New  York — the  day 
before  we  sailed " 


And  you've  been  my  good  angel  ever  since- 


I  want  to  be — now.  .  .  .  Please  get  me  a  glass 
of  warm  milk." 

He  obeyed.  From  her  bag  she  produced  a  powder 
and,  at  her  word,  Bedient  held  forth  his  tongue.  .  .  . 

"  And  now  I  want  you  to  drink  the  milk — all  of  it. 
You  put  down  asterisks  in  the  place  of  breakfast — quite 
as  usual.  I  considered  my  self-control  remarkable  at  the 
time." 

He  drank  the  milk  slowly,  as  she  had  ordered.  .  .  . 
The  moments  were  sensational.  Picture  after  picture 
passed  through  the  light  of  his  mind,  as  from  other  lives, 
and  the  loves  of  many  women;  and  then  the  whole  story 
that  he  had  told  Beth  Truba  rushed  by — the  mother's 
hand  and  the  little  boy — the  city,  the  parks,  the  ships — 
the  hours  upon  her  arm,  when  she  had  made  him  over 


In  the  Little  Room  Next  323 

anew  to  face  the  long  voyage  alone — the  questions  he  had 
asked — the  last  port  with  her,  which  he  had  never  been 
able  to  find — the  last  ride  with  Beth — until  he  was  shaken 
with  the  rush  of  visions.  Everything  that  he  was,  and 
hoped  to  be,  everything  that  he  had  thought  of  beauty 
and  truth  and  giving,  every  aspiration  and  every  inspira 
tion — seemed  gifts  of  women !  His  very  life  and  all  that 
had  come  to  him — gifts  of  women.  And  all  their  loving, 
wistful,  smiling  faces  were  there — among  the  Dream 
Ranges.  .  .  .  Now  this  one  was  speaking : 

.  .  .  "  I  want  you  to  show  me  where  I  am  to  rest 
and  where  you  are  to  rest." 

Up  they  went  together  and  softly.  ...  He  led 
her  into  his  own  room,  but  she  saw  his  things  and  would 
not. 

"  This  is  where  you  belong,"  she  whispered.  "  You 
will  rest  better  here.  .  .  .  Please  don't  dispute. 
,.  .  .  But  let  me  be  near,  if  you  will." 

He  showed  her  a  little  room  that  joined  his  own. 
Falk  had  made  it  ready. 

"  Just  the  place  for  me.  .  .  .  And  after  you  have 
lain  down,  please  whistle  softly.  I  shall  come  in  and  read 
to  you  until  you  are  asleep." 

"  It's  like  a  fairy  story  already,"  he  said. 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  the  pictures  took  up  their 
swift  passing  again.  It  was  not  the  drug,  but  the  new 
thing  in  this  life  of  his — a  woman's  ministering.  .  .  . 
She  came  in  presently,  her  hair  loosened.  She  wore  one 
of  his  silk  night-coats,  the  sleeves  rolled  up;  and  very 
little,  she  looked,  in  the  heelless  straw  sandals.  She  was 
pale.  He  saw  the  throbbing  artery  in  her  white  throat 
The  polished  ebon  floor  had  a  startling  effect  upon  her 
Mack  hair. 

"You  are  like  Rossetti's  Pomegranate  picture,"  he 
said,  and  added  with  a  strange  smile,  "  Do  you  know  there 
is  something  true  about  you — arrow-true  ?  " 


324  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

She  sat  down  in  the  chair  near  him  and  picked  up  the 
Book.  "  What  shall  I  read  ?  "  she  asked  without  looking 
up.  "  It  must  be  something  that  will  soothe,  and  not 
make  you  think,  except  happily." 

"  It's  all  there.  .  .  .  The  stately  prose  of  Isaiah 
— I  love  the  ringing  authority  of  it " 

She  read.  There  were  delicate  shadings  of  volume, 
even  in  her  lowered  voice,  which  lent  a  fine  natural  quality 
to  her  expression.  Bedient  knew  the  words,  but  he  loved 
the  mystery  of  this  giving  of  hers — her  giving  of  peace  to 
him.  .  .  .  He  had  obeyed  her  implicitly,  and  the 
morning  had  become  very  dear.  ...  Ill  and  weary, 
all  his  nerves  smarting  with  terrific  fatigue,  as  the  eyes 
smart  before  tears,  and  yet  her  ministering  had  made 
him  a  little  boy  again.  .  .  .  His  eyelids  were  shut 
and  he  was  happy.  It  was  a  bewildering  sense,  so  long 
had  he  been,  and  so  far,  from  a  moment  like  this.  His 
immortal  heroine  was  close  once  more — she  of  the  an 
swered  questions  and  the  healing  arms.  So  real  was  it, 
that  he  thought  this  must  be  death.  ...  A  sign  from 
her  made  him  know  that  it  was  not.  .  .  .  Queer, 
bright  thoughts  winged  in  and  out  of  his  mind.  There 
was  a  drowsy  sweep  to  the  atmosphere — no,  it  was  the 
nuances  of  the  voice  that  read  to  him.  ..."  When 
one  comes  to  see  in  this  life  a  clearer,  brighter  way  for 
the  conduct  of  the  next,  he  has  not  failed."  His  mind 
went  over  this  several  times.  .  .  .  And  presently  he 
felt  himself  sailing  through  space  toward  one  bright  star. 
For  eternities  he  had  sailed — dominant,  deathless — often 
wavering  in  the  zones  of  attraction  of  other  worlds,  but 
never  really  losing  that  primal  impetus  for  his  own  light 
of  the  universe.  .  .  .  And  so  while  she  read,  Bedient 
drifted  afar,  sailing  on  and  on  toward  his  star.  .  .  . 

She  saw  that  he  slept,  and  her  head  dropped  forward 
until  it  touched  the  edge  of  his  bed,  but  very  softly. 
.  .  .  And  there,  for  a  long  time,  she  remained,  until 
the  woven  cane  left  a  white  impress  upon  her  forehead. 


In  the  Little  Room  Next  325 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  others  met  below,  but  Be- 
dient  had  not  awakened.  Miss  Mallory  joined  them  and 
told  what  she  had  done,  and  how  ill  he  had  been  for  need 
of  rest.  .  .  .  When  the  day  was  ending  she  stole 
through  the  little  room  into  his.  Still  he  slept,  so  softly, 
that  she  bent  close  to  hear  his  breathing.  .  .  .  All  the 
furious  moments  of  action  in  recent  days  passed  in  swift 
review,  as  she  stood  there  in  the  dark.  And  from  it  all 
came  this: 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  for  a  woman  to  serve  a  man, 
with  hand  and  brain, — as  one  man  might  serve  another — 
and  there's  high  joy  in  it ;  but  a  woman  must  not  serve 
a  man  that  way — if  she'd  rather  have  his  love  than  hope 
of  heaven." 

.  .  .  And  when  he  awakened,  she  was  still  beside 
him. 


THIRTY-THIRD   CHAPTER 

THE  HILLS  AND  THE  SKIES 

VARIED  were  the  emotions  of  Dictator  Jaffier  and 
Coral  City  generally,  while  Bedient  slept  through  that 
long  day  of  surpassing  fortune  to  the  Island.  He  com 
municated  certain  facts  to  the  Dictator  next  morning, 
and  a  day  later,  the  government  forces  entered  and  took 
possession  of  The  Pleiad  without  firing  a  shot. 

It  did  not  transpire  at  this  time  that  the  vast  inflation 
of  war-sentiment  in  Equatoria  was  pricked  with  a  knife, 
so  small  that  a  woman  could  conceal  it  in  her  hair. 

Bedient  intervened  between  Jaffier  and  Senora  Rey, 
and  upon  the  latter  a  substantial  settlement  was  made,  as 
well  as  a  generous  annuity.  Within  three  days,  the  Glow 
worm  had  left  Coral  City  for  an  Antillean  port,  to  con 
nect  with  a  South  American  steamer.  The  Sorensons 
and  one  Chinese  accompanied  her.  The  Glow-worm 
shone  as  one  lavishly  rich,  but  trembled  with  fears  which 
she  dared  not  express,  until  Equatoria  should  sink  from 
her  horizon. 

Jaffier's  gunboat,  which  had  followed  the  Savonarola 
on  principle  and  deserted  for  the  unlit  tramp,  drove  this 
latter  destiny-maker  through  the  coral  passage  in  daylight, 
and  around  to  the  harbor,  amid  the  subdued  rejoicing  of 
the  Defenders.  Subdued,  because  the  Defenders  were 
jerky  with  fear  of  a  trick,  even  with  the  guns  and 
ammunition  safely  stored  in  the  Capitol — until  the  mes 
sage  from  Bedient  to  Jaffier  made  certain  mysterious 
issues  clear. 

The  Pleiad  guests  were  not  summarily  routed,  but  the 
force  of  law,  and  the  flood  of  light,  suddenly  turned  upon 
every  corner  of  this  establishment,  destroyed  the  atmos 
phere  for  crime  and  concupiscence.  The  paintings  and 
various  beautiful  collections  of  the  late  art-lover-and 

326 


The  Hills  and  the  Skies  327 

patron,  were  gathered  together  in  one  of  the  great  wings 
of  the  establishment,  and  opened  to  the  people.  The 
magnificent  grounds  became  a  public  park. 

Bedient  was  regarded  with  something  akin  to  awe  for 
his  activity  at  The  Pleiad,  and  on  board  the  Savonarola. 
Jaffier  could  readily  perceive  how  large  were  the  pecu 
niary  interests  of  Carreras'  heir  in  the  complete  demoli 
tion  of  the  Spaniard's  power,  but  such  single-handed 
effectiveness  had  a  supermasculine  voltage  about  it, 
despite  Bedient's  laughing  explanations.  The  Carreras 
interests  became,  in  Jaffier's  mind,  second  only  to  the 
interests  of  the  government.  A  handsome  present  and  a 
rich  grant  of  land  were  privately  conferred  upon  Miss 
Mallory,  at  Bedient's  suggestion,  for  her  brilliant  ser 
vices  to  the  government.  .  .  .  But  these  are  dry  externals. 
A  careful  resume  of  happy  adjustments  from  Jaffier 
down  to  Monkhouse  following  the  last  sail  of  the  Span 
iard,  would  weary.  .  .  .  Three  days  after  the  spent  and 
silent  six  rode  up  to  the  hacienda,  Bedient  was  left  with 
but  two  guests,  Miss  Mallory  and  Jim  Framtree,  who 
were  awaiting  the  New  York  steamer.  ...  In  effect, 
the  parable  of  the  Horses  had  been  retold  to  Framtree. 
Bedient  took  him  for  a  night-walk  over  the  hills  for  this. 

"  But  Beth  showed  me  very  clearly — where  I  wouldn't 
do  at  all,"  the  big  man  said  intensely.  "  And  clearly,  I 
saw  it,  too, — raw  and  unfinished  beside  her,  I  was." 

"  Did  she  ever  show  you  that  little  picture  of  you  she 
painted?"  Bedient  asked. 

"  No.  All  she  had  of  me  were  a  few  kodak  prints " 

"  She  probably  painted  the  picture  from  them,"  Be 
dient  said.  "  I  saw  it  on  her  mantle  one  day,  and  in 
stantly  our  little  talk  in  Coral  City  recurred  to  me.  I 
knew  you.  Beth  Truba  didn't  mention  your  name. 
.  .  .  The  portrait  is  exquisitely  done.  .  .  .  Why, 
Jim  Framtree,  that  portrait  meant  more  to  her  than  my 
comings  and  goings  in  the  flesh " 

"  I  can't  quite  understand  that,  Bedient !  " 


328  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  I  knew  there  was  some  power  in  her  heart  that  I 
did  not  affect.  I  related  it  to  the  picture,  and  when  she 
told  me  the  parable,  I  asked  her  outright  if  the  picture 
and  her  heart's  knight  were  one.  She  answered  '  Yes.' 
.  .  .  And  so,  Jim,  I  stand  in  awe  of  you.  You've 
won  and  held  what  is  to  me  the  greatest  woman  of  our 
time.  I  don't  know  anything  I  wouldn't  do  for  you — 
with  that  light  upon  you " 

"  You've  got  me  thinking  faster  than  is  safe,  Bedient. 
Do  men  turn  this  sort  of  trick  very  often  for  each  other  ?  " 

"  It  was  glad  tidings,"  Bedient  said.  "  The  fact  is,  I 
have  no  better  thing  to  give,  than  services  for  such  a 
woman.  It's  clear  and  simple,  that  my  business  is  to 
make  her  as  happy  as  I  can  from  the  outside.  .  .  .  And, 
Jim,  she  must  not  know  I  told  you,  nor  that  I  hunted  you 
up.  It  wouldn't  be  best.  .  .  .  Just  go  back  to  New  York, 
ask  to  see  her,  and  try  again.  She'll  be  glad " 

"You're  sure  of  that?" 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  be  sure.  It's  her  province.  ,  .  . 
I  want  her  to  have  the  chance." 

"  .  .  .  You  ought  to  know  how  I  feel  about  all 
this,  Bedient,"  Framtree  said  unsteadily,  "  since  you  know 
her." 

Bedient  liked  that. 

"  I  made  it  a  bit  hard  for  you,"  he  replied,  "  the  way  I 
told  it — as  if  you  didn't  count  at  all  with  me — only  as 
something  she  wanted — but  you  do,  Jim " 

"...  We'll  come  back,  or  I'll  come  back," 
Framtree  said,  and  he  turned  away  from  the  other's  eyes. 

Bedient  had  looked  upon  him  that  moment,  as  if  he 
would  add  his  own  soul's  strength  to  the  strength  of 
Framtree.  .  .  .  The  hours  that  followed,  to  the  mo 
ment  of  the  Henlopen's  sailing,  were  hours  of  building. 
Framtree  found  himself  locked  in  the  concentration  of 
Bedient's  ideals — matters  of  manhood  fitted  about  him, 
that  he  had  not  aspired  to.  And  it  was  not  easy  to  fall 
from  them,  when  Bedient  believed  in  him  so  truly. 


The  Hills  and  the  Skies  329 

And  Miss  Mallory  lured  back  Bedient's  strength.  He 
ate,  drank  and  slept  at  her  bidding.  ...  So  little 
she  said,  so  instant  to  understand,  so  strange  and  differ 
ent  she  was,  waiting  upon  his  words  as  upon  a  master's. 
.  .  .  The  last  evening  at  the  hacienda  (the  Henlopen 
had  arrived  in  the  harbor)  he  played  for  them  upon  the 
orchestrelle.  Music  came  forth  new  and  of  big  import 
to  his  consciousness.  .  .  .  He  had  tried  the  soul- 
rousing  heimweh  from  the  slow  movement  of  Dvorak's 
New  World  Symphony,  when  Miss  Mallory,  looking  over 
the  rolls,  discovered  the  Andante  of  Beethoven's  Fifth. 

"  Don't  you  remember — the  orchestra — that  night  ? 

.  .  .  It's  wonderful  and  mysterious — won't  you ?" 

But  she  saw  the  look  that  came  into  his  face,  and  did  not 
finish.  Instead,  she  put  the  roll  away  quickly,  knowing 
she  had  touched  a  more  vital  association  than  a  theatre 
fright. 

"  Don't  mind,  and  please  forgive  me " 

.  .  .  That  night  they  stood  together  at  the  door  of 
the  little  room,  for  she  had  refused  to  change.  Bedient 
said: 

"  Every  time  I  think  of  you  I  feel  better,  Adith 
Mallory.  ...  I  shall  think  of  you  often,  always  as 
if  you  were  in  the  little  room  next  to  mine." 

They  went  aboard  the  following  night,  and  sailed  at 
dawn.  Bedient  rode  back  to  the  hacienda  during  the 
morning.  .  .  .  How  strange  it  will  be — alone,  he 
thought;  stranger  still,  he  faced  the  prospect  without 
dread.  ...  A  hush  had  fallen  upon  the  hills,  and 
upon  his  heart.  Some  mysterious  movement  was  stirring 
at  the  centres  of  his  life.  .  .  . 

A  box  of  pictures  had  come  on  the  Henlopen;  also  a 
letter  from  Torvin.  There  were  three  canvases  in  the 
latest  shipment,  and  seven  had  come  to  the  hacienda 
while  he  was  in  New  York.  He  hung  them  all  in  a  room 
where  there  was  good  North  light,  and  kept  the  key  with 
him.  And  so  there  was  a  gallery  for  the  Grey  One  in 


330  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

that  house,  as  well  as  the  little  room  next  to  his.  He 
smiled  at  the  thought  that  a  man's  life  becomes  a  house  of 
his  friends.  .  .  .  Torvin  reported  that  Miss  Grey 
had  disposed  of  several  pictures  direct  from  her  studio; 
that  he  had  marketed  eight  pictures  beside  the  ones 
shipped  to  Equatoria,  and  that  there  was  a  sprightly 
demand  for  her  work.  .  .  . 

That  night,  as  Bedient  ascended  the  stairs,  a  long 
sigh  escaped  him.  So  uncommon  a  thing  was  this,  that 
he  stopped  to  reflect.  It  was  like  one  casting  off  a  worn 
garment.  Some  old,  ill,  tired  part  of  him  passed  away, 
and  out  of  the  great  still  house.  He  did  not  loathe  it,  but 
sped  its  passing,  happily,  gratefully.  .  .  .  Then  the 
thought  came,  "  Why  do  I  attract  all  this  beauty  of  friend 
ship  and  loyalty  ? "  .  .  .  AH  the  eager  activity  of 
others  in  his  behalf  recurred — the  gracious  image  of  that 
Mother  of  myriad  services,  before  all — and  the  fragrant 
essence  of  a  hundred  deeds  of  love  for  him.  ..."  I 
must  hurry  to  keep  pace,  but  I  can't — with  these  infinite 
favors !  "  he  whispered. 

A  passion  for  service  surged  through  him — to  pray, 
and  serve,  and  love  and  do ;  to  write  and  give  and  lift  and 
smile ;  always  to  help ;  to  fall  asleep  blessing  the  near  and 
the  far ;  to  awake  prodigal  with  strength.  .  .  .  Such 
a  spirit  of  giving  brimmed  into  his  life,  that  his  flesh 
thrilled  with  the  ecstasy  of  illimitable  service. 

The  material  things  about  him — walls,  staircase,  even 
the  lamp-globes — were  shadowy  and  unreal  in  the  midst 
of  these  mystically  glowing  conceptions. 

The  sense  of  perfect  health  came  to  him — a  steady, 
rhythmic  radiation ;  not  a  tired,  weak  fibre,  but  a  singing 
vitality  of  every  tissue,  as  if  it  were  cushioned  in  some 
life-giving  fluid — a  pure  perfumed  bloom  of  health. 

Bedient  turned  upon  the  stair.  He  wanted  no  man- 
made  room,  but  the  night  and  the  hills  and  the  skies. 
Bare  of  head  he  went  forth. 


THIRTY-FOURTH   CHAPTER 

THE  SUPREME  ADVENTURE 

THE  night  was  full  of  sounds,  sights,  odors,  textures — 
that  he  had  never  sensed  before.  He  smelled  the  wild 
oranges  from  the  hillsides,  and  the  raw  coffee  that  lay 
drying  on  the  great  cane  mats  before  the  native  cabins. 
His  limbs  seemed  lifted  over  the  rocky  ways ;  he  loved  the 
dim  contours  in  the  starlight,  and  the  breath  of  the  sea 
that  came  with  the  night-wind.  The  stars  said,  "  Wel 
come,"  and  the  hills,  "  All  is  well." 

Mother  Earth  was  lying  out  in  more  than  starlight — 
but  not  asleep.  She  was  laughing,  wise,  sweet  in  eternal 
youth.  Always  she  had  been  dear  to  him,  this  Flesh 
Mother.  Her  storms  and  terrors  she  had  shown,  but 
never  harmed  him.  He  loved  her,  sea  and  mountain  and 
plain — God-Mother  and  the  Kashmir  border — the  high 
way  ride  with  the  lustrous  lady  and  its  sunshine — the 
path  through  the  wood.  .  .  .  What  a  boy  and  girl 
they  had  been!  How  he  had  loved  her — and  the  day — 
how  he  had  suffered  for  it ! 

And  now  Bedient  knelt  upon  the  stones,  uplifted  his 
hands  to  the  starlight,  and  cried  in  a  low  voice :  "  God 
bless  Beth  Truba,  and  help  me  to  bless  her  at  every  turn 
ing  of  her  life  f  God  bless  Beth  Truba  for  the  sensitizing 
sorrow  she  gave  me,  without  which  this  hour  could  not 
have  been  revealed  to  ine ! " 

.  .  .  He  seemed  to  be  leaping  from  crest  to  crest 
in  an  ocean  of  happiness.  .  .  .  Some  glorious  mag 
netic  Presence  strode  beside  him.  The  night  quivered 
with  mighty  energies — strange  brightenings  flashed  be 
fore  his  eyes.  He  wanted  nothing — but  to  give.  .  .  . 
All  was  clear  to  him.  Immortality  was  here  and  now: 
This  life  but  a  hut  upon  the  headland  of  interminable 

331 


332  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

continents,  yet  as  much  a  part  of  immortality,  as  the  life 
of  the  star-clothed  Master  who  blinded  Saul  on  the  road 
to  Damascus. 

What  a  symphony — the  flower,  the  star,  the  drop  of 
rain,  the  rose,  the  child,  the  harvest,  the  voice  of  love,  the 
soul  of  Woman, — all  from  the  Luminary,  God, — all  His 
immortal  symphony. 

He  was  filled  with  light — as  a  still,  clear  harbor  at 
high  noon — gems  and  treasure-horns  flashing  in  the 
depths.  He  realised  God.  This  was  a  ray  of  God  that 
penetrated  him — the  spiritual  essence  "  all  science  trans 
cending." 

With  joy,  a  sentence  he  had  once  heard  returned, 
"  Prayer  is  not  catching  God's  attention,  but  permitting 
him  to  hold  ours !  "  .  .  .  Faith  and  truth  are  one ; 
Faith  is  the  scaffolding  in  which  the  structure  of  Truth  is 
builded ;  that  which  is  Faith  to  us,  is  Truth  to  the  angels. 
.  .  .  As  never  before,  he  realized  that  wisdom  comes 
from  the  inner  light  of  man,  and  not  from  the  comprehen 
sion  of  externals.  .  .  .  He  knew  now  the  meaning 
of  ecstasy  on  the  faces  of  the  dying,  and  remembered  with 
confusion  and  alarm  that  men  of  this  day  were  afraid  of 
Death !  .  .  .  How  much  more  should  they  fear  birth 
— birth,  the  ordeal  of  the  soul — the  putting  on  of  flesh. 
Great  souls  put  on  flesh  to  hasten  the  way  of  their 
younger  brothers  to  the  Shining  Tablelands.  That  is 
pure  Spirit — to  lift  the  weak  and  show  the  way  to  those 
dim  of  sight. 

Integration  of  spirit — that  is  power,  that  is  progress. 
Compared  to  this,  a  mere  education  of  the  mind  is  vain 
and  dull — a  hoarding  of  facts,  as  coins  are  hoarded;  a 
gathering  of  vanities,  as  clothes  and  adornments  are 
gathered  together.  His  soul  cried  out  within  him: 
Teach  the  Spirit  of  God.  "  The  soul  who  ascendeth 
to  worship  God  is  plain  and  true."  .  .  .  Teach  the 
Spirit,  break  daily  new  ground  of  giving  and  devotion. 
Growth  of  Spirit — that  is  blessedness !  That  is  the 


The  Supreme  Adventure  333 

exalted  end  of  all  suffering  in  the  flesh.  The  world  is 
good ;  all  is  good.  There  is  no  evil,  but  the  ignorant  uses 
of  self-consciousness.  Man  has  fallen  into  dark  ways 
that  belong  to  the  awful  ascent  from  the  dim.  innocence 
of  animals  to  the  lustrous  knowledge  of  God. 

Treasure  every  loving  impulse;  the  number  of  these 
is  your  day's  achievement — thus  the  Voice  went  on.  Love 
giving;  let  the  throat  tighten  with  emotion  for  others, 
and  the  hand  go  out  to  the  stranger ;  love  giving,  but  love 
more — him  who  receives.  Preserve  humility  in  your 
blessedness.  There  is  nothing  to  fear,  no  darkness  of 
destiny,  nothing  to  fear  for  the  growing  and  humble  spirit. 
Death !  It  is  but  the  breaking  of  a  rusty  scabbard  to 
loose  a  flashing  blade! 

"  Oh,  that  I  were  a  hundred  men — to  die  before  all 
men — to  die  daily !"  he  cried  out.  "  But  I  shall  live. 
I  shall  live  with  the  poor.  I  shall  feed  them  the  bread  of 
the  body;  and,  if  I  may,  the  bread  of  life.  I  shall  be 
brother  to  the  poor,  and  they  shall  hear  of  their  kingdoms. 
.  .  .  Oh,  God,  help  me  to  utter  the  glory  of  life,  the 
sublimity  of  the  human  soul !  " 

And  now  he  saw  the  terrible  need  of  pity  for  those 
who  wrap  themselves  in  the  softest  furs,  who  feed  upon 
the  breasts  of  doves  and  drink  the  spirit  of  purple  and 
golden  grapes — those  whom  the  world  serves,  and  who 
are  so  arrogant  in  their  regality.  He  must  not  forecast 
the  falling  of  such,  but  pity  them — and  speak,  if  they 
would  listen — for  their  need  is  often  greater  than  that 
of  the  menials  who  cringe  before  their  empty  greatness, 
blinded  by  their  kingly  trappings.  The  world  so  often 
betrays  them  at  the  end,  strips  them  to  nakedness  and 
leaves  them  to  die — for  they  are  the  cripples,  the  sick, 
the  blind  in  spirit.  .  .  .  Delicately  he  must  attend 
the  brutal  and  arrogant ;  not  hate  them,  even  when  he  per 
ceives  their  devastation  among  the  poor.  Everywhere  to 
give  tokens  of  his  health  and  power. 

His  love  came  back — as  in  lightning,  his  love  came 


334  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

back!  Not  the  love  of  one  that  he  had  known — that 
was  good,  inevitable,  even  the  restless  agony  of  it. 
Through  the  love  of  one,  comes  the  love  of  many.  .  .  . 
But  this  was  love  of  the  world !  It  surged  over,  through 
him — like  the  fire  of  the  burning  bush — that  did  not  de 
vour.  .  .  .  He  had  abstained  from  evil  before,  but 
held  the  taste  for  certain  evils.  Now  the  taste  was  gone — 
for  every  fleshly  thing.  Wanting  nothing,  he  could  love, 
indeed. 

How  strange  and  wonderful !  All  that  he  had  thought 
before,  and  expressed  in  New  York,  had  seemed  his  very 
own — the  realizations  of  Andrew  Bedient — but  this  night 
his  every  thought,  almost,  had  a  parallel,  from  one  or 
another  of  th'e  great  ones  who  had  gone  this  high  way 
before.  .  .  .  He  perceived  that  he  had  been  old  in 
self-consciousness,  so,  that,  in  a  way,  his  New  York  utter 
ances  were  stamped  with  his  own  individuality.  In  this 
greater  consciousness  he  was  a  child;  its  glory  was  be 
yond  words.  He  could  only  echo  the  attempts  of  those 
whose  lips  had  faltered  with  ecstasy. 

If  any  man  is  in  Christ,  he  is  a  new  creature;  the  old 
things  are  passed  away;  behold,  they  are  become  new. 

Such  was  Paul's  clear  saying.  .  .  .  The  differ 
ence  between  Andrew  Bedient  at  this  hour  and  the  self 
he  had  been  was  great  as  that  between  the  simple  con 
sciousness  of  the  ox  and  the  self-consciousness  of  man. 

This  was  the  borderland  of  Gautama's  Nirvana;  this 
the  Living  Water,  Jesus  offered  to  the  woman  at  the 
well ;  this  the  Holy  Ghost  that  appeared  unto  the  Hebrew 
saints  and  prophets — Moses,  Gideon,  Samuel,  Isaiah, 
Stephen ;  this  the  genius  of  Paul,  the  ecstasy  of  Plotinus, 
the  paradise  of  Behmen,  the  heavenly  light  of  St.  John 
of  the  Cross ;  this,  the  Beatrice  of  Dante,  the  Gabriel  of 
Mahomet,  the  Master  Peter  of  Roger  Bacon,  the  Sera- 
phita  of  Balzac,  the  radiant  companion  of  Whitman,  and 
the  /  of  Edward  Carpenter. 


335 

The  light  would  have  killed  one  who  had  not  inte 
grated  spiritual  light  to  reflect  it.  The  light  of  the 
Illuminati  is  terrible  to  eyes  filled  with  evil.  This  was 
the  "  smile  of  the  Universe "  that  Dante  saw.  .  .  . 
He,  Andrew  Bedient,  loved  infinitely  and  was  infinitely 
loved.  The  words  of  a  hundred  saints  echoed  in  his 
consciousness — and  out  of  them  all  came  this  command : 

Make  men  to  know  that  this  which  has  come  to  you, 
will  come  to  them.  The  few  have  gone  before  you,  but 
the  many  have  not  ascended  so  far. 

And  now  he  saw  the  whole  road  of  man,  from  the 
simple  consciousness  of  animals,  through  human  self- 
consciousness,  to  the  cosmic  consciousness  of  prophets — 
and  beyond  to  Divinity.  Always  the  refinement  of  mat 
ter,  and  the  attraction  of  light — spiritual  light.  He  saw 
the  time  when  a  self-conscious  man  was  the  best  specimen 
of  the  human  race.  So  for  cosmic  consciousness,  the 
time  would  come;  and  as  the  centuries  passed,  the  earlier 
would  it  appear  in  the  life  of  the  evolved. 

A  clear  expression  of  what  had  taken  place  within  him 
now  appeared — his  own  expression  to  make  it  clear  for 
men.  In  the  summit  of  self-consciousness,  his  mind  was 
like  a  campfire  in  the  night — a  few  objects  in  a  circle  of 
red  firelight  and  shadow.  The  crown  of  cosmic  conscious 
ness  now  come,  was  the  dawn  of  full  day  upon  the  plain. 

Full  day  upon  the  plain — distances,  contours,  the  great 
blooms  of  space ;  a  swarm  of  bees,  a  constellation  of  suns  ; 
the  traffic  of  ants  among-  the  dropped  twigs  of  the  sand, 
the  communion  of  angels  bevond  the  veils  of  heaven ;  the 
budding  of  a  primrose,  the  resurrection  of  a  God — and  all 
for  men,  when  the  daybreak  and  the  shadows  flee  away. 

He  saw  that  this  was  the  natal  hour  of  the  world's 
soul-life,  and  that  it  would  come  through  the  giving 
spirit  of  Woman.  He  saw  great  souls  pressing  close  to 
every  pure,  strong,  feminine  spirit ;  the  first  fruits  of 
the  centuries  hovering  close  to  great  women  of  the  world, 
praying  for  bodies  to  toil  with,  eager  to  turn  from  their 


336  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

heaven   to   labor   for   men.     .     .     .     And   this   was   the 
shekinah  of  Andrew  Bedient — the  spirit  of  his  message. 

His  blood  ceased  to  flow ;  he  heard  the  flight  of 
angels ;  he  was  bathed  in  Brahmic  splendor — until  he 
could  bear  no  more.  .  .  . 

He  awoke  in  the  "  ambrosia  of  dawn  " ;  in  that  strange 
hush  which  lies  upon  the  world  before  fall  the  floods  of 
rosy  red.  .  .  .  He  arose,  his  feet  stumbling  with 
ecstasy.  Light  winged  over  the  hills — and  afar  off,  he 
saw  the  roofs  of  the  hacienda  sharpen  with  day.  .  .  . 

His  face  was  like  morning  upon  a  cloud.  The  natives 
vanished  before  him ;  Falk  and  Leadley  shrank  back, 
wondering  what  manner  of  drink  he  had  found  in  the 
night. 


THIRTY-FIFTH   CHAPTER 

FATE  KNOCKS  AT  THE  DOOR 

DURING  the  month  that  followed,  Bedient  wrote  at 
length  to  all  his  friends  in  New  York.  Nightly  he  roamed 
the  hills  and  rode  his  lands  throughout  the  long  fore 
noons.  It  was  a  season  of  sheer  exaltation.  The  great 
house  had  become  dear  to  him.  His  own  fullness  was 
enough.  There  was  no  loneliness — "  loneliness,  with  our 
planet  in  the  Milky  Way  ?  "  .  .  .  He  felt  a  sense  of 
authority  in  what  he  wrote,  altogether  new,  a  more  fin 
ished  simplicity — the  very  white  wine  of  clarity. 

Then  he  placed  great  energies  of  planting  upon  the 
lands  Jaffier  had  conferred  upon  Miss  Mallory;  and 
carried  out  plans  for  the  increase  of  his  own  harvests. 
In  fact,  he  was  more  interested  than  ever  in  this  base 
of  his  future  operations  in  New  York.  He  realized  the 
need  of  help — an  ordering  executive  mind.  His  brain 
and  body  quickly  adjusted  to  the  great  good  which  had 
descended  upon  him — work  and  praise,  and  love  for  all 
things.  With  these,  his  hours  breathed. 

One  midnight  in  July,  as  he  lay  awake,  an  impulse 
came  to  play  Beethoven's  symphony — in  the  dark.  .  .  . 
He  arranged  the  four  rolls  to  hand,  turned  off  the  lights 
again,  and  sat  down  before  the  orchestrelle.  The  open 
ing  bars,  which  the  Master  designated,  "So  pocht  das 
Schicksal  an  die  Pforte,"  lured  his  every  power  of  con 
centration.  He  was  one  with  it,  and  movements  of  the 
dark  swung  with  the  flow  of  harmony.  The  silence 
startled  him.  It  was  hard  to  re-assemble  his  faculties  to 
change  the  rolls  for  the  Andante.  .  .  . 

The  three   voices   returned   to   his   mind — man   and 

woman  and  the  luminous  third  Presence.     That  which 

had  always  been  dim  and  formless  before,  now  cleared — 

the  place  and  the  man.    The  room  was  large  and  had  the 

22  337 


338  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

character  of  a  music  studio,  or  one  department  of  a  large 
conservatory.  A  grand  piano,  a  stand  for  violin,  pic 
tures  of  the  masters,  and  famous  musical  scenes  on  the 
wall — more,  there  was  music  in  the  air — intervals  when 
the  three  figures  seemed  to  listen.  A  violin  was  across 
the  man's  knee,  a  bow  in  his  right  hand. 

The  man  was  down,  whipped.  The  world  had  been 
too  much  for  him.  The  face  was  not  evil,  nor  was  it 
mighty.  A  tall  young  man — a  figure  knit  with  beauty 
and  precision.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  small  man  enlarged, 
rather  than  one  of  natural  bulk.  Bedient's  recognition 
of  the  man  was  not  material ;  some  inner  correspondence 
made  him  know.  .  .  .  He  was  sitting  upon  a  rocker, 
too  small  and  low  for  him.  The  long,  perfect  limbs 
stretched  out  would  have  appeared  lax  and  drunken  but 
for  their  grace  of  line.  The  bow-hand  dropped  limp, 
almost  to  the  floor.  The  other  moved  the  violin  about, 
handled  it  lightly,  familiarly,  as  one  would  play  with  a 
scarf.  Fugitive  humor  flashed  across  the  face,  relieving 
the  deep  disquiet,  but  the  laugh  was  an  effort  of  one  who 
was  confronted  by  demolished  fortunes.  His  whole  look 
was  that  of  a  man  who  has  been  shown  some  structural 
smallness  of  his  own,  shown  beyond  doubt — his  ranges 
of  personal  limitation,  made  clear  and  irrefutable.  He 
recognized  his  master  in  the  woman  opposite.  .  .  . 
Yet  powerful  natural  elements  within  him  were  bearing 
upon  the  hateful  revelation.  They  sought  to  cover  the 
puny  nakedness,  and  make  an  hallucination  of  it  all.  He 
was  not  evolved  enough  to  accept  the  truth  with  humility. 

The  woman  was  psychically  torn.  The  agony  of  her 
face  cannot  be  pictured,  nor  her  martyrdom  of  sustaining 
courage.  She  could  not  see  the  third  Presence,  but  it  was 
there  for  her.  It  was  above  her,  yet  was  called  by 
her  natural  greatness.  There  was  a  line  of  luminous  white 
under  her  eyes,  that  left  the  lower  part  of  her  face  in 
shadow.  The  eyes  were  shining  with  that  dissolving 


Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door  339 

supernatural  light,  that  comes  with  terrible  spiritual  hun 
ger.  Her  dark  hair  had  fallen  in  disarray. 

In  the  first  transcendent  happiness  she  had  conceived  a 
child.  The  hideous  disillusionment  was  now — months 
before  the  babe.  And  her  struggle  at  this  moment  of  her 
heart's  death — was  to  keep  the  madness  of  sorrow  from 
despoiling  the  child,  that  lay  formative  within — to  pre 
serve  the  child  whole,  and  in  her  original  greatness  of 
ideal,  in  the  midst  of  her  own  destroying,  and  against  the 
defiling  commonness  that  had  just  been  revealed  in  the 
father.  .  .  . 

She  had  crossed  the  last  embankment  of  agony;  her 
struggle  was  finished.  She  had  conquered.  The  Pres 
ence  had  come  to  hold  her  mind  true,  in  this  passage 
through  chaos.  .  .  .  Her  own  death  she  would  have 
welcomed,  save  that  the  babe  must  live.  It  had  come  to 
her  as  a  daybreak  from  heaven.  It  must  not  be  crushed 
and  weighted  with  this  tragedy  of  pure  earth.  .  .  . 
She  held  the  blight  from  the  child! 

She  knew  this.  She  arose  and  smiled.  Into  her  soul 
had  come  a  sense  of  the  amplitude  of  time — a  promise  of 
adoration — a  blessing  upon  her  courage — a  knowledge 
of  her  child's  lustre.  The  Angel  had  whispered  it. 
Blithe,  lifting,  loving,  the  message  had  come  to  her  from 
the  Presence. 

The  man  perceived  that  he  had  hurt  her  mortally ; 
that  his  meaning  to  her  had  vanished.  He  arose  to 
approach  her,  but  a  gesture  of  her  hand  made  him  sink 
again  into  the  low  chair.  He  seemed  trying  to  realize 
that  she  had  passed  beyond  him,  indeed, — trying  to  realize 
what  it  would  mean  to  him.  .  .  .  Pitiful,  boyish  and 
unfinished,  he  struggled  to  adjust  his  own  life  to  her 
going — and  watched  her  bind  her  hair. 

Every  •movement  of  the  conflict  held  a  globe  of  mean 
ing  for  the  son  of  this  woman,  a  third  of  a  century 
afterward.  Her  tragedy  had  marked  it  imperishably 
upon  the  tissue  of  his  life,  with  Beethoven's  Andante 


340  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

movement  for  the  key.  Strains  of  it  may  have  come  to 
that  music-room  with  these  towering  emotions.  .  .  . 
More  than  this  Andrew  Bedient  saw  the  sources  of  his 
own  heritage !  From  another  aspect  he  viewed  the  death- 
lessness  of  time,  the  beauty  of  physical  death,  the  radiance 
of  the  future,  the  immortality  of  love.  It  was  revealed 
how  all  the  agony  of  the  world  arises  from  the  knitting 
together  of  soul  and  flesh,  the  evolving  of  soul  through 
flesh.  Spirit  is  given  birth  in  flesh — and  birth  is  pain. 
Death  is  the  ecstasy  of  the  grown  spirit.  Spirit  prospers 
alone  through  giving,  and  greatly  through  the  giving  of 
love.  Spirit  shines  star-like  in  the  giving  of  woman — 
in  the  fineness  and  fullness  which  she  loves  into  her  chil 
dren,  binding  glory  upon  them  with  her  dreams.  Thus  is 
expressed  her  greatness ;  thus  women  are  nearest  the 
sources  of  spirit;  thus  they  fulfill  the  first  meaning  of 
life  on  earth.  And  the  woman  who  preserves  the  nobility 
of  her  conception  of  Motherhood — against  the  anguish 
of  a  broken  heart  and  a  destroyed  love — God  sends  his 
Angels  to  sustain  her !  .  .  . 

Bedient  was  aroused  at  last  in  the  silence  and  in  the 
dark.  .  .  .  He  knelt  in  a  passion  of  tribute  to  his 
.immortal  heroine,  whose  spirit  had  danced  with  him 
above  the  flesh  and  the  world.  He  saw  again  that  he  was 
ordained  to  look  within  for  the  woman  ;  that  his  heart  was 
his  mother's  heart;  his  spirit,  her  spirit — this  twain  one 
in  loving  and  giving. 


IV 

NEW  YORK 

dllegro  Finale 


THIRTY-SIXTH   CHAPTER 

THE   GREAT  PRINCE  HOUSE 

THERE  were  calms  and  conquests  on  the  brow  of  Vina 
Nettleton.  She  had  been  in  Nantucket  one  whole  day 
alone,  before  David  Cairns  came.  Such  a  day  availeth 
much,  but  she  shuddered  a  little  at  the  joy  she  took  in  the 
prospect  of  his  coming.  Vina  had  learned  what  his 
absence  meant  a  month  before,  when  three  entire  days 
elapsed  without  a  call  from  Cairns  at  the  studio.  He  had 
been  away  on  a  certain  happiness  venture.  .  .  . 
There  had  been  no  word  yet,  but  here,  Nantucket — Vina 
breathed  deeply  at  the  name.  Almost  every  day  their 
thoughts  had  turned  a  sentence  upon  this  meeting.  .  .  . 
He  stepped  forth  from  the  little  steamer  late  in  the  after 
noon  in  a  brisk  proprietory  fashion,  but  the  treasures  of 
boyhood  were  shining  in  his  eyes ;  and  he  searched  her 
face  deeply,  as  if  to  detect  if  mortal  illness  had  begun  its 
work  amid  the  terrible  uncertainties  of  separation. 

"  Do  you  remember,  at  first,  I  was  to  find  you  down 
among  the  wharves  with  Moby  Dick?"  she  said. 

"  To-morrow  morning — for  that,"  he  replied. 

She  showed  him  the  way  to  his  hotel,  and  the  house 
where  she  was  a  guest.  But  they  supped  together. 

.     .     .     They  walked  in  Lily  Lane  in  the  dusk. 

"  It's  too  dark  to  see  the  Prince  Gardens,"  she  told 
him.  "  They're  the  finest  on  the  Island,  and  the  house 
is  the  finest  in  Lily  Lane.  .  .  .  There  doesn't  seem 
to  be  a  light.  I  wonder  if  the  old  sisters  are  gone? 
,  .,  .  The  Princes  were  a  great  family  here  years  and 
years  ago,  but  gradually  they  died  out  and  dwindled  away, 
until  last  summer  there  were  only  two  old  maiden-aunts 
left — lovely,  low-voiced  old  gentlewomen,  whom  it  was 
so  hard  to  pay  for  their  flowers.  But  they  lived  from 
their  gardens  and  now  they're  gone,  it  seems.  I  must 

343 


344  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

ask  to-morrow  what  has  become  of  them.  And  yet,  the 
gardens  are  kept  up.  Can  you  see  the  great  house  back 
in  the  shadows  among  the  trees  ? " 

Cairns  believed  he  could  make  out  something  like  the 
contour  of  a  house  in  denser  shadow. 

"  The  fragrance  of  the  gardens  is  lovelier  than  ever," 
Vina  went  on,  "  and  listen  to  the  great  trees  whispering 
back  to  the  sea !  " 

They  walked  along  the  shore,  and  stared  across  to 
ward  Spain,  and  talked  long  of  Beth  and  Bedient.  .  .  . 
And  once  Vina  stretched  out  her  arms  oversea,  and  said : 

"  Oh,  I  feel  so  strange  and  wonderful !  " 

Cairns  started  to  speak,  but  forbore.  .   .   . 

They  met  early  in  the  morning,  down  upon  the  de 
serted  water-front.  An  hour  of  drifting  brought  them 
back  to  Lily  Lane.  There  was  a  virginal  pallor  in  the 
sunlight,  different  from  the  ruddy  summer  of  the  Main 
land,  as  the  honey  of  April  is  paler  and  sweeter  than  the 
heartier  essence  of  July  flowerings.  The  wind  breathed 
of  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  the  sublime  patience  of  the 
women  who  hurried  down  Lily  Lane  (faded  but  mystic 
eyes  that  lost  themselves  oversea  through  thousand-day 
voyages),  to  welcome  their  knight-errants,  bearing  home 
the  marrow  of  leviathans.  .  .  . 

"  The  gardens  are  kept  up,"  Vina  said,  standing  on 
the  walk,  before  the  Prince  house.  "  Perhaps  the  old 
sisters  are  still  there,  and  we  may  get  some  flowers  from 
them " 

"  I  think,  if  you'll  let  me  walk  ahead  and  talk  with  the 
gardener,"  Cairns  said,  "  we'll  be  allowed  to  go  in — at 
least,  for  some  flowers." 

She  laughed  at  the  audacity  of  a  stranger  in  Nan- 
tucket,  but  bade  him  try. 

"  If  you  fail,  it's  my  turn,"  she  added. 

Cairns  seemed  to  have  little  trouble  in  negotiating 
with  the  gardener,  and  presently  beckoned. 

"  I've  done  very  well  for  a  stranger,"  he  whispered. 


The  Great  Prince  House  345 

"  We're  to  have  the  flowers.  More  than  that,  we  are 
to  look  through  the  house.  The  sisters  are  away " 

"  David " 

"  But  I  told  him  who  you  were — about  your  friends 
and  relatives  in  Nan — here.  ...  I  assure  you,  he 
believes  we  have  never  set  foot  out  of  New  England." 

There  was  a  sweet  seasoning  in  the  house;  decades 
of  flowers  and  winds,  spare  living,  gentle  voices  and  in 
fallible  cleanliness — that  perfumed  texture  which  years 
of  fineness  alone  can  bring  to  a  life  or  to  a  house. 

"  See,  the  table  is  set  for  two !  "  Vina  whispered,  "  as 
if  the  sisters  were  to  be  back  for  dinner.  Everything  is 
just  as  they  left  it." 

They  moved  about  the  front  rooms,  filled  with  trophies 
from  the  deep,  a  Nantucketer's  treasures — bits  of  pottery 
from  China,  weavings  from  the  Indies,  lacquers  from 
Japan — over  all,  spicy  reminders  of  far  archipelagoes,  and 
the  clean  fragrance  of  cedar. 

On  the  mantel  in  the  parlor  stood  a  full-rigged  ship, 
a  whaling-ship,  with  her  trying-house  and  small-boats — • 
a  full  ship,  homeward  bound.  .  .  . 

The  gardener  had  left  them  to  their  own  ways. 

"  That's  because  he  knows  your  folks,"  Cairns  said 
softly.  "  Shall  we  look  upstairs  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  we'd  better?  " 

"Don't  you  want  to?" 

"  Yes " 

"  It  isn't  a  liberty — when  we  have  the  proper  spirit." 

"Isn't  it,  David?" 

.  .  .  With  hushed  voices  and  light  steps,  they 
passed  up  and  through  the  sunny  rooms.  Fresh  flowers 
everywhere,  and  one  bright  room  with  two  small  white 
beds. 

"  The  maiden-aunts,"  Cairns  said  hoarsely. 

At  length,  he  held  open  for  her  to  enter,  the  door  of 
the  great  front  room,  filled  with  Northern  brightness 
from  a  skylight  of  modern  proportions. 


346  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  Why,  David,"  she  whispered  raptly,  "  it's  like  a 
studio !  It  if  a  studio !  " 

And  then  she  saw  the  scaffoldings,  the  ladders  and 
panels  which  do  not  belong  to  a  painter. 

She  faced  him.  .   .    . 

The  room  was  filled  with  adoration  that  enchanted 
the  light.  The  branches  of  the  trees  about  the  lower 
windows,  softly  harped  the  sound  of  the  sea.  .  .  . 
Vina's  hands  were  pressed  strangely  to  her  breast,  as  she 
crossed  to  an  open  window.  .  .  .  And  there  she 
stood,  face  averted,  and  not  moving  her  hands,  until 
she  felt  him  near. 

"  But  I  must  tell  you  that  the  thought  was  not  mine 
first  of  all,  Vina,"  Cairns  was  saying  an  hour  afterward. 
"  You  used  to  talk  to  me  a  great  deal  about  Nantucket — 
about  the  houses  in  Lily  Lane,  the  little  heads  about  the 
table,  and  how  you  walked  by,  watching  hungrily  like  a 
night-bird — peering  in  at  simple  happiness.  I  couldn't 
forget  that,  and  I  told  Bedient — how  you  loved  Nan- 
tucket.  One  night  at  the  club,  he  said :  '  Buy  one  of  those 
houses,  David,  and  let  her  find  out  some  summer  morning 
slowly — that  it  is  hers — and  watch  her  face.'  Then  he 
suggested  that  we  both  come  over  here  to  see  about  it. 
That's  what  took  us  away  a  month  ago." 

There  was  a  soft  light  about  her  face,  not  of  the 
room.  Cairns  saw  it  as  she  regarded  him  steadily  for  a 
moment.  "  I  love  your  telling  me  that,  David,"  she  said. 

"  I  could  hardly  hold  the  happiness  of  it  so  long," 
he  added.  "  Last  night  it  was  hard,  too.  ...  So 
Bedient  and  I  came  over  and  met  the  maiden-aunts.  Such 
a  rare  time  we  had  together — and  yet,  deep  within,  he 
was  suffering." 

"  He  went  away  almost  immediately  afterward,  didn't 
he?" 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Vina,  do  you  think  he  couldn't  make 
Beth  forget  the  Other?  " 


The  Great  Prince  House  347 

"  No,  David." 

Her  unqualified  answer  aroused  him.  "  I  haven't 
seen  Beth  for  weeks,"  he  said.  "  She  has  been  out  of 
town  mostly.  I  must  see  her  now." 

"Yes?" 

"  Vina,  what  a  crude  boy,  I  was — not  to  have  known 
you — all  these  years.  It  seems  as  if  I  had  to  know 
Bedient  first." 

"  Perhaps,  I  did  too,  David." 

"And  Vina,  it  was  a  word  of  Beth's  that  started  me 
thinking  about  you — that  made  me  realize  you  were  in 
the  world.  .  .  .  This  moment  I  would  give  her  my 
arms,  my  eyes — for  that  word  of  hers." 

f<  She  is  the  truest  woman  I  have  ever  known,"  Vina 
said. 

.  .  .  "The  Other  is  back  in  New  York,"  Cairns 
told  her  a  moment  later.  "  I  saw  him  an  hour  before 
leaving,  but  not  to  speak  to.  ...  How  strange  it 
would  be " 

Vina  shook  her  head. 

"  Come  back  to  New  York  with  me  to-day ! "  he  said 
suddenly.  "  Our  friends  are  there.  You  wouldn't  trust 
anyone  to  pack  the  panels  you'll  need  for  work  here. 
.  .  .  Then  we'll  come  back  together  for  the  long  sum 
mer's  work — will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

There  was  a  quick  step  below — not  the  step  of  the 
man  of  flowers.  Vina  glanced  at  Cairns,  who  was 
smiling. 

"  I've  arranged  for  servants,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  I 
think  dinner  is  nearly  ready.  .  .  .  The  table  wasn't 
set  for  maiden-aunts " 

"  The  long  summer's  work  together "  she  said,  in 

an  awed  voice. 

"  But  first,  our  dinner  together — you  and  I — here — 
oh,  Vina!" 

"...  But,  David,  .  .  .  you  said — dinner 
first!" 


THIRTY-SEVENTH   CHAPTER 

BETH  AND  ADITH  MALLORY 

BETH  TRUBA  dreamed : 

She  had  been  traveling  for  days  and  years,  over  plains, 
through  the  rifts  of  high  mountains,  across  rivers  and 
through  great  lonely  silences,  with  just  a  dog  for  a 
companion.  A  white  dog  with  small  black  spots,  very 
playful  and  enduring,  and  though  not  large,  he  was 
very  brave  to  contend  with  all  that  was  fearful.  At  night 
he  curled  up  close  to  her  and  licked  her  hand,  and  in  the 
morning  before  the  weary  hours,  he  played  about  and 
made  her  laugh. 

They  came  at  last  to  a  great  desert.  There  was  no 
other  way,  but  to  cross,  if  she  hoped  ever  to  reach  her 
journey's  end.  .  .  .  On  and  on,  through  the  burning 
brightness  they  went,  forgetting  their  hunger  in  the 
greater  thirst.  The  nights  were  dreadful  with  a  drying, 
dust-laden  wind,  and  the  days  with  destroying  brilliance. 
At  length  one  mid-day,  the  dog  could  go  no  further. 

He  sat  down  upon  his  haunches  and  looked  at  her,  his 
tail  brushing  the  sand — eyes  melting  with  love  for  her. 
She  put  her  hand  upon  his  head,  and  the  dry  tongue 
touched  her  fingers.  .  .  .  She  must  leave  him.  He 
seemed  to  understand  that  she  must  go  on ;  his  eyes  told 
her  his  sufferings — in  that  he  could  not  be  with  her.  And 
so  she  went  on  alone. 

When  she  turned  he  was  watching,  but  he  had  sunk 
down  upon  the  sand.  Only  his  head  was  raised  a  little. 
Still  she  saw  the  softness  of  the  eyes ;  and  his  ears,  that 
had  been  so  sharp  in  the  happy  days,  had  dropped  close 
about  his  head. 

On  she  went,  looking  back,  until  the  spot  on  the  sand 
where  he  lay  was  gone  from  her  eyes.  And  she  knew 
what  it  meant  to  be  alone.  The  days  were  blazing,  and 

348 


Beth  and  Adith  Mallory  349 

the  nights  filled  with  anguish  to  die.  At  last  her  hour 
came.  ...  So  glad  she  was  to  sink  down  a  last  time 
and  let  the  night  cover  her.  .  .  .  But  the  sound  of 
running  water — water  plashing  musically  upon  the  stones, 
and  the  breath  of  flowers — awoke  her  after  many  hours. 
A  cooling  dawn  was  abroad,  and  in  the  lovely  light  she 
saw  low  trees  ahead — green  palms  around  a  fountain — 
fruits  and  shade  and  flowers.  .  .  .  She  arose,  and 
from  her  limbs  all  weariness  was  gone.  There  was  a 
quick  bark,  and  her  dog  came  bounding  up — and  Beth 
awoke,  thinking  it  was  her  soul  that  had  returned  to  her, 
restored. 

Beth  realized  that  she  had  half-expected  Bedient  to 
re-enter  that  open  door.  .  .  .  Reflecting  upon  the 
days,  she  found  that  he  had  done  none  of  the  things  she 
had  half-expected.  Only,  while  she  had  believed  herself 
comparatively  unresponsive,  he  had  filled  her  with  a  deep, 
silent  inrushing.  One  by  one  he  had  swept  away  the 
ramparts  which  the  world  had  builded  before  her  heart. 
So  softly  and  perfectly  had  he  fitted  his  nature  to  her 
inner  conception  that  she  had  not  been  roused  in  time. 
But  the  Shadowy  Sister  had  known  him  for  her  prince  of 
playmates.  .  .  .  She  wondered  how  she  could  have 
been  so  wilful  and  so  blind  with  her  painter's  strong  eyes. 
Even  her  pride  had  betrayed  her.  Wordling  and  the 
ocean  could  not  continue  to  stand  against  all  the  good 
he  had  shown  her. 

Beth  had  run  away  for  a  few  days.  She  could  not 
bear  her  mother's  eyes,  nor  the  studio  where  he  had  been. 
Better  the  house  of  strangers,  two  hours  from  New  York 
up  the  Hudson.  .  .  .  She  heard  he  had  gone  back  to 
his  Island.  .  .  .  The  June  days  drowsed.  The  mid 
days  were  slow  to  come  to  as  far  hills ;  and  endless  to 
pass  as  hills  that  turn  into  ranges.  The  sloping  afternoons 
were  aeon-long;  and  centuries  of  toil  were  told  in  the 
hum  of  the  bees  about  her  window,  toil  to  be  done  over 


350  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

and  over  again ;  and  sometimes  from  the  murmur  of  the 
bees,  would  appear  to  her  like  a  swiftly-flung  scroll, 
glimpses  of  her  other  lives,  filled  like  this  with  endless 
waiting — for  she  was  always  a  woman.  And  for  what 
was  she  waiting?  .  .  . 

Often  she  thought  of  what  Bedient  had  said  about 
the  women  who  refuse  the  bowl  of  porridge,  and  who 
therefore  do  not  leave  their  children  to  brighten  the  race. 
These  he  had  called  the  centres  of  new  and  radiant 
energy,  the  spiritual  mothers  of  the  race.  And  one  night 
she  cried  aloud :  "  Would  one  be  less  a  spiritual  help, 
because  she  had  a  little  of  her  own  heart's  desire?  Be 
cause  she  held  the  highest  office  of  woman,  would  her 
outer  radiance  be  dimmed  ?  To  be  a  spiritual  mother,  why 
must  she  be  just  a  passing  influence  or  inspiration — a 
cheer  for  those  who  stop  a  moment  to  refresh  themselves 
from  her  little  cup,  and  hurry  on  about  their  own  near 
and  dear  affairs,  in  which  she  has  no  share?  .  .  . 
He  stands  in  a  big,  bright  garden  and  commands  the 
spiritual  mother  to  remain  a  waif  out  on  the  dusty  high 
way.  '  How  much  better  off  you  are  out  there ! '  he  says. 
'  You  can  show  people  the  Gate,  and  keep  them  from 
going  the  wrong  way,  on  the  long  empty  road.  Nothing 
can  hurt  you,  but  yourself.  It  is  very  foolish  of  you  to 
want  to  come  in ! ' '  .  .  . 

She  remembered  that  some  fine  thing  had  lit  his  eyes 
like  stars  at  the  parting.  Time  came  when  she  wished 
she  had  seen  him  at  the  studio,  or  at  her  mother's  house, 
when  he  called  before  going  away.  .  .  .  The  sharp 
irony  of  her  success  brought  tears — and  Beth  Truba  was 
rather  choice  of  her  tears.  The  portrait  had  made  a  stir 
at  the  Club,  and  the  papers  were  discussing  it  gravely. 

It  brought  back  the  days  in  which  he  had  come  to  the 
studio,  and  what  it  had  meant  to  her  for  him  to  move 
in  and  out.  How  dependent  she  had  become  upon  his 
giving!  The  imperishable  memories  of  her  life  had 
arisen  from  those  days,  while  she  painted  his  portrait. 
Beth  realized  this  now — days  of  strange  achievement 


Beth  and  Adith  Mallory  351 

under  his  eyes — errant  glimpses  of  life's  inner  beauty — 
moments  in  which  she  had  felt  the  power  to  paint  even 
that  delicate  and  fleeting-  shimmer  of  sunlight  about  a 
humming-bird's  wing,  so  intense  was  her  vision — their 
talks,  and  the  ride — well  she  knew  that  these  would  be 
the  lights  of  her  flagging  eyes — treasures  of  the  old 
Beth,  whose  pictures  all  were  painted. 

It  was  hard  to  have  known  the  joy  of  communion  with 
his  warm  heart,  and  deeply  seeing  mind — and  now  to 
accept  the  solitude  again.  She  felt  that  his  going  marked 
the  end  of  her  growth;  that  now  it  was  a  steady  down 
grade,  body  and  mind.  .  .  .  Some  time,  long  hence, 
she  would  meet  him  again.  .  .  .  She  would  be 
"  Beth-who-used-to-paint-so-well."  They  would  talk  to 
gether.  The  moment  would  come  to  speak  of  what  they 
might  have  been  to  each  other,  save  for  the  Wordlings 
of  this  world.  She  would  weep — no,  she  would  burst 
into  laughing,  and  never  be  able  to  stop !  It  would  be  too 
late.  A  woman  must  not  be  drained  by  the  years  if  she 
would  please  a  man  of  flesh.  She  could  not  keep  her 
freshness  after  this ;  she  had  not  the  heart  to  try.  .  .  . 
Thus  at  times  her  brain  kept  up  a  hideous  grinding. 
.  .  .  She  could  feel  the  years!  .  .  .  Jim  Fram- 
tree  saw  them. 

She  had  found  a  note  from  him  two  days  old  under 
her  studio-door.  He  had  telephoned  repeatedly,  and 
taken  the  trip  over  to  Dunstan  to  see  her.  .  .  .  Would 
she  not  allow  him  to  call?  And  now  Beth  discovered 
an  amazing  fact : 

She  had  been  unable  to  keep  her  mind  upon  him,  even 
during  the  moment  required  to  read  his  single  page  of 
writing.  She  wrote  that  he  might  come.  .  .  . 

She  heard  his  voice  in  the  hall.  The  old  janitor  of 
the  building  had  remembered  him,  Beth's  hands,  which 
had  lain  idle,  began  leaping  strangely  from  the  inner 
turmoil.  She  wished  now  she  had  met  him  somewhere 
apart  from  the  studio.  His  tone  brought  back  thoughts 
too  fast  to  be  tabulated,  and  his  accent  was  slightly 


352  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

English.  She  divined  from  this  he  had  been  out  of  the 
country — possibly  had  returned  to  New  York  on  a  British 
ship.  How  well  she  knew  his  plastic  intelligence!  It 
was  so  characteristic  and  easy  for  him — this  little  affec 
tation.  .  .  .  She  was  quite  cold  to  him.  Bedient  had 
put  him  away  upon  the  far-effacing  surfaces  of  her  mind. 

The  knocker  fell.  Rising,  she  learned  her  weakness. 
As  she  crossed  the  room  the  mirror  showed  her  a  woman 
who  has  met  many  deaths. 

He  greeted  her  with  excited  enthusiasm,  but  the  ten 
sion  which  her  change  in  appearance  caused,  was  imper 
fectly  concealed  by  his  words  and  manner.  .  .  .  She 
knew  his  every  movement,  his  every  thought  before  it 
was  half-uttered,  as  a  mother  without  illusions  knows 
her  grown  son,  who  has  failed  to  become  the  man  she 
hoped.  They  talked  with  effort  about  earlier  days.  He 
treated  her  with  a  consideration  he  had  never  shown 
before.  The  challenge  of  sex  was  missing.  Duty,  and 
an  old  and  deep  regard— these  Beth  felt  from  him.  She 
attributed  it  to  the  havoc  of  a  few  weeks  upon  her  face. 
She  wished  he  would  not  come  again ;  but  he  did. 

It  was  the  next  morning — and  she  was  painting. 
Again  the  knocker  and  his  cheery  greeting.  Beth  sat 
down  to  work — and  then  thoughts  of  the  two  men  came 
to  her.  She  should  not  have  tried  to  paint,  with  Fram- 
tree  in  the  room.  .  .  .  Thoughts  arose,  until  she 
could  not  have  borne  another.  The  colors  of  her  canvas 
flicked  out,  leaving  a  sort  of  welted  gray  of  flesh,  from 
which  life  is  beaten.  She  rubbed  her  eyes. 

"  Jim,"  she  said  at  last,  "  why  did  you  come  back  ?  " 

He  came  forward,  and  stood  over  her.  "  I  wanted  to 
see  if  there  was  any  change,  Beth, — any  chance." 

She  regarded  him,  noted  how  effective  is  humility 
with  such  magnificent  proportions  of  strength. 

"  There  isn't,  Jim,"  she  answered.  "  At  least,  not  the 
change  you  look  for.  I'm  sorry  if  you  really  wanted  it, 
but  I  think  in  time  you'll  be  glad " 


Beth  and  Adith  Mallory  353 

"  Never,  Beth." 

She  smiled. 

Framtree  hesitated,  as  if  there  were  something  fur 
ther  he  would  like  to  say.  He  refrained,  however. 
.  .  .  Beth  gave  her  hand,  which  he  kissed  for  old 
love's  sake. 

Then  Framtree  went  out. 

On  the  following  Sunday  morning,  Adith  Mallory's 
Equatorian  news-feature  appeared.  The  entire  truth 
and  all  the  names  were  not  needed  to  make  this  as 
entertaining  a  Sunday  newspaper  story  as  ever  drew  forth 
her  fanciful  and  flowing  style.  It  was  Equatoria  that 
caught  and  held  Beth's  eye,  and  she  saw  Andrew  Bedient 
in  large  movement  behind  the  tale.  The  feature  was  dated 
in  Coral  City  ten  days  before.  Beth  was  so  interested 
that  she  wanted  to  meet  the  correspondent,  and  wondered 
if  Miss  Mallory  had  returned  to  New  York.  She  dropped 
a  card  with  her  telephone  number,  and  the  next  morning 
Miss  Mallory  'phoned.  Her  voice  became  bright  with 
animation  upon  learning  that  Beth  was  upon  the  wire. 

"  There's  no  one  in  New  York  whom  I'd  rather  talk 
with  this  moment,  Miss  Truba." 

"And  why?" 

"  That  portrait  at  the  Smilax  Club — I  saw  it  yester 
day.  I'm  writing  about  it.  ...  The  face  I  know — 
and  you  have  done  it  tremendously!  I  can't  tell  you 
how  it  affected  me.  Don't  bother  to  come  down  here. 
Let  me  go  to  you." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Mallory, — this  after 
noon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  thank  you." 

The  call  had  brightened  Beth's  mood  somewhat.  A 
bundle  of  letters  had  been  dropped  through  her  door  as 
she  talked.  Beth  saw  the  quantity  of  them  and  remem 
bered  it  was  Monday's  first  mail.  She  busied  about  the 
studio  for  a  moment.  .  .  .  Letters,  she  thought, — 
23 


354  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

these  were  all  she  had  to  represent  her  great  investments 
of  faith.  Letters — the  sum  of  her  longings  and  vivid 
expectations.  No  matter  what  she  wanted  or  deserved — 
a  voice,  a  touch  or  a  presence — it  had  all  come  to  this, 
the  crackle  of  letter  paper.  What  a  strange  thing  to 
realize !  A  fold  of  paper  instead  of  a  hand — a  special  de 
livery  instead  of  a  step  upon  the  stair — a  telegram  instead 
of  a  kiss!  .  .  . 

"  I  belong  in  a  cabinet,"  she  sighed.  "  I  guess  I'm 
a  letter-file  instead  of  a  lady."  .  .  . 

There  was  a  large  square  envelope  from  Equatoria. 
.  .  .  With  stinging  cheeks,  Beth  resented  the  buoy 
ant  happiness  of  the  first  few  lines.  Until  a  clearer  under 
standing  came,  it  seemed  that  he  was  blessing  her  refusal 
of  him.  How  unwarranted  afterward  this  thought  ap 
peared!  The  letter  lifted  her  above  her  own  suffering. 
Her  mind  was  held  by  the  great  vital  experience  of  a  soul, 
a  soul  faring  forth  on  its  supreme  adventure.  He  did 
not  say  what  had  happened  in  words,  but  she  saw  his 
descent  in  the  flesh  and  his  upward  flight  of  spirit — the 
low  ebb  and  the  flashing  heights.  .  .  .  How  well  she 
knew  the  cool  brightness  of  his  eyes,  as  he  wrote!  The 
god  she  had  liberated  that  sunlit  day  was  dead — not  dead 
to  her  alone,  but  to  any  woman  of  Shore  or  Mountain  or 
Isle.  .  .  .  With  a  gasp,  she  recalled  Vina  Nettleton's 
first  conception,  that  Bedient  was  past,  or  rapidly  passing 
beyond  the  attraction  of  a  single  woman. 

Beth  saw  that  she  had  helped  to  bring  him  to  this 
greater  dimension.  There  was  a  thrill  in  the  thought. 
There  would  have  been  a  positive  and  enduring  joy,, 
had  he  not  gone  from  her  to  another.  Truly,  that  was  an 
inauspicious  beginning  for  Illumination — but  miracles 
happened.  This  thought  fascinated  her  now:  Had  she 
seen  clearly  and  made  the  great  sacrifice  of  withholding 
herself — that  he  might  rise  to  prophecy — there  would 
have  been  gladness  in  that !  She  felt  she  could  have  done 
that — the  iron  Beth — given  him  to  the  world  and  not 


Beth  and  Adith  Mallory  355 

retained  him   for  her  own  heart.     He  said  that  other 
women  had  done  so.     What  an  instrument ! 

But  strength  did  come  from  his  letter;  there  was  a 
certain  magic  in  his  praise  and  blessing.  It  gave  her 
something  like  the  natural  virtues  of  mountain  coolness 
and  ocean  air.  Austerely  pure,  it  was.  Plainly,  pleasure 
had  not  made  him  tarry  long. 

Beth  and  Miss  Mallory  had  talked  an  hour  before  the 
name  of  Jim  Framtree  was  innocently  mentioned  by  the 
newspaperwoman.  It  was  not  Beth's  way  to  betray  her 
fresh  start  of  interest,  even  though  she  gained  her  first 
clue  to  the  meaning  of  the  fine  light  she  had  seen  in 
Bedient's  eyes  at  parting.  .  .  .  The  blood  seemed  to 
harden  in  her  heart.  The  familiar  sounds  of  the  summer 
street  came  up  through  the  open  windows  with  a  sudden 
horror,  as  if  she  were  a  captive  on  cannibal  shores. 

"  No  one  knows  why  he  wanted  this  talk  with  Mr. 
Framtree,"  Miss  Mallory  was  saying.  "  He  wanted  it 
vitally — and  you  see  what  came  of  it — a  revolution 
averted — the  fortunes  of  the  whole  Island  altered  for  the 
better — and  yet,  those  were  only  incidents.  He  was  so  ill 
— that  another  man  would  have  fallen — and  yet  he  went 
to  The  Pleiad — and  aboard  the  Spaniard's  yacht,  as  you 
read.  ...  I  knew  his  courage  before — from  the 
Hedda  Gabler  night — but  it  was  true,  he  didn't  know  me ! 
The  only  result  I  know  was  that  Mr.  Framtree  came  to 
New  York " 

It  seemed  to  Beth  that  her  humanity  was  lashed  and 
flung  and  desecrated.  ..."  But  he  did  not  know," 
she  thought.  "  He  did  not  know.  He  could  not  have 
hurt  me  this  way.  He  thought  I  could  not  change,  that 
I  should  always  worship  the  beauty  of  exteriors.  I  told 
him  the  parable — and  he  went  away — to  send  me  what  he 
thought  I  wanted!  .  .  ." 

Miss  Mallory  had  come  with  a  tribute  of  praise  to  a 
great  artist.  She  found  a  woman  who  was  suffering,  as 


356  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

she  had  suffered,  in  part.  A  great  mystery,  too,  she 
found.  It  was  almost  too  sacred  for  her  to  try  to  pene 
trate,  because  it  had  to  do  with  him.  .  .  .  She  won 
dered  at  Miss  Truba's  inability  to  speak,  or  to  help  her 
self  in  any  way  with  the  things  that  pressed  her  heart 
to  aching  fullness.  .  .  .  She  had  found  it  wonder 
fully  restoring  to  talk  of  him — with  a  woman  who  knew 
him — and  who  granted  his  greatness  from  every  point. 

The  long  afternoon  waned,  but  still  the  women  were 
together.  All  that  had  taken  place  was  very  clear  to 
Beth — even  this  woman's  ministerings. 

"  And  he  is  better — beyond  words,  better !  "  Miss 
Mallory  added.  "  I  received  a  note  from  him  this 
morning.  The  Hatter  as  arrived  yesterday.  I  came  up 
on  the  Henlopen  eight  days  ago.  So  it  was  my  first 
word.  Something  great  has  happened.  He  is  changed 
and  lifted." 

"  Has  Mr.  Framtree  finished  his  mission  ? "  Beth 
asked. 

"  Yes.  He  intends  to  go  back  to-morrow  afternoon. 
He  finished  sooner  than  he  thought.  He  is  going  to  help 
Mr.  Bedient  in  the  administration  of  the  vast  property. 
.  .  .  It  seems  that  no  one  ever  touches  Mr.  Bedient, 

but  that  some  great  good  comes  to  him.  I  am  going  back, 
j._-. » 

"To  live?" 

"  Yes."  Miss  Mallory  explained  what  Dictator  Jaffier 
had  done  for  her,  adding : 

"  It  was  all  Mr.  Bedient's  doing.  .  .  .  You  see 
what  I  mean,  about  the  wonderful  things  that  happen 
to  others — where  he  is.  ...  Yet  I  would  rather  have 
that  picture  of  him  you  painted — than  all  Equatoria — 
but  even  that  should  not  belong  to  one " 

"  You  love  him  then  ?  "  Beth  asked  softly. 

"  I  dared  that  at  first,  but  I  didn't  understand.  He 
is  too  big  to  belong  that  way.  ...  I  would  rather 
be  a  servant  in  his  house — than  the  wife  of  any  other 


Beth  and  Adith  Mallory  357 

man  I  ever  knew.  I  am  that — in  thought — and  I  shall 
be  near  him !  " 

After  a  moment,  Beth  heard  the  silence — and  drew 
her  thoughts  back  to  the  hour.  She  seemed  to  have  gone 
to  the  utmost  pavilions  of  tragedy — far  beyond  the 
sources  of  tears — where  only  the  world's  strongest  women 
may  venture.  The  Shadowy  Sister  was  there.  .  .  . 
Beth  had  come  back  with  humility,  which  she  could  not 
reveal. 

The  dusk  was  closing  about  them. 

"  You  have  been  good  to  come — good  to  tell  me  these 
things,"  Beth  said.  "  Some  time  I  shall  paint  a  little 
copy  of  the  portrait  for  you.  I'm  sure  he  would  be 
glad." 


THIRTY-EIGHTH   CHAPTER 

A  SELF-CONSCIOUS  WOMAN 

Two  days  later  Beth  answered  a  'phone  call  from 
David  Cairns.  .  .  .  He  was  just  back  from  Nan- 
tucket  .  .  .  for  a  few  days.  .  .  .  Very  grateful 
to  find  her  in.  ...  Yes,  Vina  had  come  over,  too. 

Beth  was  instantly  animate.  Vina  had  planned  to  be 
gone  a  month  at  least. 

"  I'd  like  to  come  over  alone  first — may  I,  Beth  ?  " 
Cairns  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"Within  a  half-hour?" 

"  Yes.  ...  I  shall  prepare  to  listen  to  great 
happiness." 

.  .  .  Beth  reflected  that  she  looked  a  belated  forty ; 
that  she  had  lost  her  charm  for  the  eye  of  Jim  Framtree, 
who  had  treated  her  like  a  relative.  She  was  ashamed 
to  show  her  suffering  to  David  Cairns — ashamed  that  she 
cared — but  it  was  part  of  her.  Happiness  was  in  the  air. 
She  must  listen.  She  marveled  at  her  capacity  to 
endure.  .  .  . 

The  dews  of  joy  were  upon  David  Cairns.  Between 
Bedient  and  Vina,  he  had  been  born  again.  He  looked  at 
her — as  all  who  knew  her  did  now — and  then  again  in 
silence.  It  always  made  her  writhe — that  second  stare. 
It  gave  her  the  sense  of  some  foreign  evil  in  her  body — 
like  the  discovery  of  a  malady  with  its  threat  of  death  in 
every  vein. 

He  told  her  that  Vina  and  he  were  to  be  married  at 
once.  Beth  gave  to  the  story  all  that  listening  could  add 
to  the  telling  of  happiness. 

"And,  David,"  she  said.  "I  claim  a  little  bit  of 
credit  for  this  glorious  thing " 

"  Credit,  Beth !"  he  said  rousingly.  "  I  told  Vina 
I  could  worship  you  for  it!" 

358 


A  Self-conscious  Woman  359 

"  Don't,  please — David.  I  don't  need  it.  I'm  too 
happy  over  you  both.  .  .  .  And  then,  it  wasn't  all 
mine,  you  know.  I  think  Mr.  Bedient  saw  you  together 
in  his  mind.  I  think  he  meant  me  to  startle  you  to  your 
real  empire " 

"  Did  he  ?  "  Cairns  asked  eagerly. 

"  Hasn't  it  turned  out  perfectly  ?  " 

Beth  did  not  miss  the  gladness  which  this  hint  gave 
him.  She  knew  that  Bedient's  thought  of  it  would  be 
like  an  authority  to  Vina  as  well.  .  .  .  She  felt  her 
self  drawing  farther  and  farther  back  from  the  lives  of 
the  elect,  but  joyously  she  urged  David  to  tell  about  their 
house  in  Nantucket. 

"And,  Beth,"  he  said  intensely.  "That  was  Be 
dient's  doing,  too.  I  have — all  I  have  seems  to  be  the 
happiness  part." 

"  Poor  dear  boy — how  hard !  " 

"...  I  was  telling  him  how  Vina  loved  Nan- 
tucket,"  Cairns  went  on,  "  some  of  the  rare  things  she 
said  about  the  Island  and  the  houses  in  Lily  Lane,  and 
how  I  planned  to  go  over  and  find  her  there  this  month. 
He  knew  we  were  coming  on  very  well.  .  .  .  One 
night  at  the  Club,  he  asked  me  why  I  didn't  buy  one  of 
those  houses  in  Lily  Lane,  fix  up  a  studio  in  one  of  the 
upper  rooms,  and  then  show  it  to  her  some  summer  morn 
ing  and  let  it  seep  in  slowly  that  it  was  hers — and  my 
heart,  too " 

"  Beautiful !  "  Beth  exclaimed.  A  trace  of  color  came 
to  her  face. 

"  I'm  telling  it  badly.  Vina  will  tell  you  better.  Any 
way,  he  wouldn't  let  me  go  over  alone.  You  remember 
when  we  went  away  together — for  three  or  four  days 
early  in  June  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  you — were  you  with  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we  went  together — found  the  house  in  Lily 
Lane " 

"  And  he  went  back  to  Equatoria — right  after  that?" 


360  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Her  tone  had  risen,  the  words  rapid. 

"  Yes — and  without  letting  me  know." 

Cairns  noted  vaguely  that  Beth's  face  seemed  farther 
away. 

"  David,  you  were  with  him — those  three  days,  begin 
ning  Monday,  the  first  week  in  June — you — were — with — 
with— him ?" 

"  Every  minute,  Beth " 

"  David,  how  did  Mrs.  Wordling  know — you  were 


going 


"  Why,  Beth,  she  didn't.    No  one  knew " 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  Isn't  there  some  way  she  could  have 
heard— at  the  Club?" 

He  hesitated.  He  had  caught  her  eyes.  They  horri 
fied  him.  .  .  .  He  remembered. 

"  Why,  yes.  We  were  talking — it  was  the  night  he 
first  spoke  of  going  over  to  Nantucket  with  me.  Mrs. 
Wordling  was  behind  at  a  near  table.  I  told  him  we'd 
better  talk  lower " 

No  sound  escaped  her.  Cairns  sprang  up  at  the  sight 
of  her  uplifted  face.  .  .  .  Her  eyes  turned  vaguely 
toward  the  door  of  the  little  room.  He  was  standing 
before  it.  She  seemed  only  to  know — like  some  half- 
killed  creature — that  she  was  hunted  and  must  hide.  She 
couldn't  pass  him  into  the  little  room,  but  turned  behind 
the  screen.  He  did  not  hear  her  step,  but  something 
like  the  rush  of  a  skirt,  or  a  sigh. 

There  was  no  sound  from  the  kitchenette.  Cairns 
could  not  think  in  this  furious  stress.  After  a  moment 
he  called. 

No  answer. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  go  to  her.  Scores  of  times 
he  had  been  in  the  studio,  but  he  had  never  passed  that 
screen. 

He  called  again.  .  .  .  Not  a  breath  nor  movement 
in  answer.  He  did  not  think  of  her  as  dead,  but  stricken 
with  some  awful  madness.  She  had  stood  transfixed. 


A  Self-conscious  Woman  361 

.  .  .  Yet  her  old  authority  was  about  her.  He  feared 
her  anger. 

"  Dear — Beth, — won't  you  let  me  come — or  do  some 
thing  ?  ...  In  God's  name — what  is  it  ?  " 

He  listened  intently. 

"  Beth,  I'll  go  and  get  Vina— shall  I?  " 

Terrible  seconds  passed;  then  her  voice  came  to  him 
— trailed  forth,  high-pitched,  slow — an  eerie  thing  in  his 
brain : 

"  /  thought  I  was  a  good  queen,  but  I  have  been  hard 
and  wicked  as  hell.  I'm  Bloody  Beth.  .  .  .  He  asked 
for  bread  and  I  gave  him  a  stone.  .  .  .  Bloody  Beth 
of  the  Middle  Ages." 

"  Beth— please !  "  he  cried. 

"  Go  away — oh,  go  away !  " 

Cairns'  only  thought  was  to  bring  Vina  to  her. 
Some  awful  hatred  for  himself  came  forth  from  the  back 
room.  He  turned  to  the  outer  door,  saying,  aloud : 

"  Yes,  Beth,  I'll  go." 

The  door  shut  and  clicked  after  him — without  his 
touch — it  seemed  very  quickly.  He  descended  the  steps 
• — a  sort  of  slave  to  the  routine  of  death — as  one  who 
finds  death,  must  run  to  perform  certain  formalities.  At 
the  front  door  he  stopped  a  second  or  two,  as  if  his  name 
had  been  called  faintly.  He  thought  it  a  delusion — and 
went  out.  Crossing  the  street,  he  heard  it  again : 

"  David !  " 

It  was  just  enough  for  him  to  hear — a  queer  high 
quality. 

He  glanced  up.  Beth  was  leaning  out  of  the  lofty 
window.  .  .  .  More  than  ever  it  was  like  death  to 
him — the  old  newspaper  days  when  he  was  first  at  death — 
— the  mute  face  aloft,  the  gesture,  the  instant  vanishing, 
when  he  was  seen  to  comprehend. 

Her  door  was  ajar.  She  called  for  him  to  come  in, 
as  he  halted  in  the  hall.  Beth  came  forth  from  the  little 
room,  after  a  moment,  and  stood  before  him,  leaning 


362  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

against  the  piano.  Her  face  was  grayish-white,  but  she 
was  controlled. 

"  Once  you  told  me  you  loved  me,"  she  said.  "  A 
happy  man  should  be  ready  to  do  something  for  a  woman 
he  once  told  that." 

"Anything,  Beth." 

"  It  came  forth  from  your  happiness — so  suddenly. 
You  have  found  me  out.  .  .  .  You  made  me  see — 
that  I  believed  the  lie  of  a  worthless  woman " 

She  halted.    The  last  words  had  a  familiar  ring. 

"  I  believed  a  despicable  thing  of  Andrew  Bedient — 
and  sent  him  away.  .  .  .  He  must  never  know.  I 
could  not  live  and  have  him  know  that  I  believed  it. 
I  am  paying.  I  shall  pay.  I  only  ask  you  to  keep  it,  for 
ever — all  that  you  saw — all  that  was  said — to-day " 

"  I  will  keep  it,  Beth." 

"  Even  from  Vina.  Vina  is  pure.  He  would  read  it 
in  her  eyes — if  she  knew.  I  wonder  that  he  loved  me. 
.  .  .  God!  .  .  .  You  have  enough  of  the  world 
left — to  bury  this  evil  thing — for  me.  I  am  glad  of  your 
happiness." 

"  Vina  will  want  to  see  you  to-day." 

"  She  may  come.  .  .  .  You  may  say  I  have  been 
ill.  It  is  true.  ...  I  shall  stay  and  be  with  you  for 
your  marriage.  You  want  me " 

"  We  came  back  to  New  York  for  that." 

"  Yes.     .     .     .     And  then  I  shall  go  away." 

Cairns  lingered.  "  But  Beth,  Bedient  will  always  love 
you.  He  will  come  back " 

"  It  is  not  the  same.  You  will  see  when  he  writes.  I 
made  him  suffer — until  a  great  light  came — and  he  is  the 
world's — not  mine." 

"  Beth,"  he  said  humbly,  "  you  are  Absolute !" 

"  I  shall  come  back — strong  enough  to  meet  him — 
as  one  of  the  world's  women — or  I  shall  stay  away,"  she 
said. 


THIRTY-NINTH   CHAPTER 

ANOTHER    SMILAX    AFFAIR 

THE  Hatteras  was  warping  into  a  New  York  slip  the 
day  before  Christmas.  Bedient  was  aboard.  There  was 
to  be  a  little  party  for  him,  given  by  Cairns  and  Vina  at 
the  Smilax  Club  that  night.  The  Cairns'  had  come  over 
from  Nantucket  for  the  winter,  and  were  living  at  the 
Club.  This  was  Bedient's  third  trip  to  New  York  in  the 
half-year  preceding.  He  had  not  seen  Beth,  but  there 
had  been  letters  between  them — of  late,  important  letters, 
big  with  reality  and  understanding.  She  had  been  in 
Europe  since  July,  but  had  promised  to  be  home  for  the 
holidays.  Vina's  last  letter  told  him  that  Beth  would  be 
at  their  affair  of  greeting  to-night. 

Adith  Mallory  saw  Jim  Framtree  in  New  York,  after 
her  hours  with  Beth  Truba.  It  was  the  day  before  he 
sailed  for  Equatoria.  Framtree  asked  her  not  to  tell 
Mr.  Bedient  that  the  name  of  Framtree  was  spoken  in  her 
conversation  with  Beth.  This  request  gave  her  a  clearer 
understanding. 

Bedient  may  have  guessed  that  the  mystery  of  the  re 
turn  of  Jim  Framtree  was  penetrated  by  Beth,  but  he 
did  not  ask  Miss  Mallory,  nor  mention  Framtree  in  his 
letters  to  the  lustrous  lady.  He  doubtless  wondered  at  the 
hasty  return  of  his  young  friend,  but  it  was  a  privilege 
of  Beth  to  return  his  gifts — one  of  the  glowing  mysteries 
of  Beth. 

Just  now,  Bedient  caught  the  waving  hand  of  David 
Cairns  in  the  small  crowd  below.  Fifteen  minutes  later 
they  were  in  a  cab  together.  .  .  .  Beth  had  returned 
to  New  York.  This  was  the  answer  to  Bedient's  first 
question. 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  with  us  this  time,  Andrew  ?  " 
Cairns  asked,  raptly  studying  his  friend. 

"  Yes.     Several  weeks  at  least." 
363 


364  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"At  the  Club?" 

"  No.    I  shall  go  back  to  Broderick  Street  to-morrow." 

This  was  a  broken  arrow  of  black  sorrows  near  the 
East  River,  straight  East  from  Gramercy.  Bedient  had 
found  it  in  the  summer,  where  it  had  lain  rotting  in  its 
wound. 

"  So  the  New  York  office  of  the  Carreras  plantations 
is  to  be  in  Broderick  Street,"  Cairns  said  thoughtfully. 

"But  I'll  be  with  you  often.  .  .  .  And,  David, 
I've  brought  up  a  small  manuscript  which  I  want  you  to 
read.  After  that  we'll  advise  together  about  its  pub 
lishing " 

"  That  is  important — if  the  stuff  is  anything  like  your 
letters  to  me.  .  .  .  Have  you  thought  of  attaching 
your  name  to  this  beginning?" 

"  Not  more  than  A.  B," 

"  Is  everything  bright  down  yonder  ?  "  Cairns  asked 
after  a  moment. 

"  Bright — past  any  idea  you  can  have.  Framtree 
is  doing  greatly — indispensable — and  loves  the  life.  Miss 
Mallory  still  unfolds.  She's  a  Caribbean  of  buried 
treasure " 

"  And  they? "  Cairns  asked. 

"  Are  friends." 

.  .  .  Vina  met  them  in  her  studio.  The  three 
stood  for  a  moment  in  silence  among  the  panels.  It  was 
not  yet  four  in  the  afternoon,  but  the  dusk  was  thicken 
ing.  .  .  .  Vina  put  on  her  hat. 

"  I've  just  received  word  from  Mary  McCullom," 
she  said.  "  She's  in  Union  Hospital — I  don't  know — but 
I  must  hurry.  The  word  said  that  Mary  McCullom 
wanted  me — nothing  more.  That  was  her  maiden-name. 
I  knew  her  so.  Her  husband  died  recently,  but  I  didn't 
hear  in  time  to  find  her.  She  must  have  left  New  York 
for  a  time.  They  were  so  happy.  .  .  .  I'm 
afraid " 

David  went  to  her. 


Another  Smilax  Affair  365 

"  No,  you  mustn't  go  with  me,  David.  There  are 
too  many  things  to  do — for  to-night " 

"  Let  me  go,  Vina,"  Bedient  said. 

In  the  cab,  she  told  him  the  story  of  Mary  McCul- 
lom's  failure  as  an  artist  and  conquest  as  a  woman — the 
same  story  she  had  told  Beth  Truba — and  what  meant  the 
love  of  the  nurseryman — to  Mary  McCullom. 

Vina's  voice  had  a  strange  sound  in  the  shut  cab. 
She  felt  Bedient's  presence,  as  some  strength  almost  too 
great  for  her  vitality  to  sustain.  He  did  not  speak. 

"  Sometimes  it  seems  almost  sacrilege,"  she  said  in  a 
trembling  tone,  "  to  be  so  happy  as  we  have  been.  .  .  . 
I  should  have  persevered  until  I  found  her — after  her 
.  .  .  oh,  what  that  must  have  meant  to  her!  .  .  . 
And  she  used  to  rely  upon  me  so " 

...  .  "  Oh,  Vina !  "  the  woman  whispered,  hold 
ing  out  her  arms.  "  I  have  wanted  you !  .  .  .  I  have 
waited  for  you  to  come.  ...  I  knew  you  would. 
I  always  loved  you,  because  you  made  me  take  him ! 
.  .  .  We  were  so  happy.  .  .  .  Draw  the  coverlet 
back " 

A  new-born  child  was  sleeping  at  her  breast. 

Vina  had  knelt.  Her  head  bent  forward  in  silent 
passion. 

"  Won't  you,  Vina — won't  you  take  him  ?  " 

Vina  covered  her  face,  but  made  no  sound. 

"  She  will  take  the  little  one,"  said  the  voice  above 
them. 

Both  women  turned  their  eyes  to  Bedient.  Mary 
McCullom  smiled  shyly. 

"  I  remember — David — Cairns,"  she  said,  in  an  awed 
tone.  "  This  is  not " 

"  No,  dear,  but  it  is  enough.  I  will  take  your — 
baby." 

The  smile  brightened.  ..."  Oh,  we  were  so 
happy,"  she  whispered.  .  .  .  "And  Vina — tell  him 


366  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

when  he  is  older — how  his  father  and  I  loved — the 
thought  of  him !  " 

"  He  will  bless  you,"  Bedient  said. 

A  glow  had  fallen  upon  the  weary  face  of  the  mother. 
.  .  .  "  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  He  will  bless  us  ... 
and  I  shall  be  with  my  husband.  .  .  .  Oh,  now,  I 
can  go  to  my  husband !  " 

Hours  afterward,  when  it  was  over,  Vina  looked 
into  Bedient's  face,  saying: 

"  You  may  ask  David — why  I  hesitated — that  first 
moment." 

"  I  know,  Vina — God  love  you !" 

Before  they  left  the  hospital,  he  said :  "  We  won't 
speak  of  this  to-night.  .  .  .  Everything  is  arranged. 
.  .  .  To-morrow  morning,  we  will  come  for  the  little 
boy.  .  .  .  It  is  time  for  us  to  be  at  the  Club." 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  Vina  answered  vaguely. 

Kate  Wilkes  and  Marguerite  Grey  were  waiting  that 
evening  in  the  Club  library.  David  Cairns  had  left  them 
a  moment  before,  called  to  the  telephone. 

"  Rather  a  contrast  from  that  other  night  when  we 
foregathered  to  meet  The  Modern — fresh  from  the  sea," 
Kate  Wilkes  observed. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Grey  One. 

"  David  no  longer  belongs  to  the  coasting-trade  in 
letters,"  Kate  Wilkes  went  on  whimsically.  "  He  has 
emerged  from  a  most  stubborn  case  of  boyhood.  Now 
he's  got  Vina's  big  spirit,  and  she  has  her  happiness  and 
is  doing  her  masterpiece " 

The  women  exchanged  glances.  "  You  mean  the 
Stations  ?  "  the  Grey  One  asked  in  her  quiet  way. 

"  Beth  has  done  a  great  portrait — enough  for  any 
woman — just  one  like  that,"  Kate  Wilkes  added,  ignor 
ing  the  other. 

"  For  a  time— I  thought  Beth  and  Mr.  Bedient " 

the  Grey  One  ventured. 


Another  Smilax  Affair  367 

"  No,"  the  other  said  briefly.  "  Beth  loves  her  work 
better  than  she  could  love  any  man.  She's  the  virgin  of 
pictures.  Have  you  seen  her  since  she  came  back  ?  " 

"  Yes.    As  lovely  as  ever." 

"  And  your  '  rage  '  is  on  again.  .  .  .  I'm  mighty 
glad  about  that,  Margie.  You  were  suicidal.  Does  the 
great  fortune  hold  true  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  the  Grey  One  said,  "  I'm  doing  right  well. 
Some  of  my  things  are  going  over  the  water." 

"  Poor  little  Wordling.  ...  I  wonder  what  she 
has  drawn  of  the  great  Driving  Good — since  that  night? 
.  .  .  I  think  it  would  puzzle  even  Andrew  Bedient — 
to  make  her  hark  to  any  soul — but  New  York's " 

"  And  you,  Kate — this  Eve — what  has  the  Year 
brought  ?  " 

"Nonsense,  I'm  glass ;  hold  oil  or  acid  with  equal 
ease,"  Kate  said,  leaning  back  in  the  big  chair.  "  I've 
got  a  bit  of  work  to  do,  and  a  few  friends  whose  for 
tunes  have  taken  a  stunning  turn  for  the  better.  And  I 
mustn't  forget — letters  from  The  Modern  when  he's 
away,  and  talks  when  he's  in  New  York.  .  .  .  What 
.  astonishes  me  about  Andrew  Bedient  is  that  he  wears. 
He  set  a  killing  pace — for  our  admiration  at  first — at 
least,  I  thought  so — but  he  hasn't  let  down  an  instant. 
He  stands  the  light  of  the  public  square.  I  granted  him 
a  great  spirit,  but  he  has  more,  a  great  nature  to  hold 
it.  He  can  mingle  with  men  without  going  mad.  There's 
many  a  prophet  who  couldn't  do  that " 

David  Cairns  joined  them.  "  They  will  be  here  in  a 
few  minutes,"  he  said.  "  Beth  is  due,  too.  .  .  . 
Talking  about  Bedient?" 

"Yes " 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  Cairns  said,  "  that  we  were  in 
a  way  concentrates  of  New  York  and  the  country,  and  he 
is  talking  to  all  the  people  through  us." 

"  You  are  strong,  aren't  you,  David — for  him  ?  "  the 
Grey  One  asked. 

"  Yes,  and  I  shall  be  stronger." 


368  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

"  I  like  that,"  said  Kate  Wilkes. 

"  He'll  work  through  us — and  directly,"  Cairns  went 
on.  "  I'm  glad  to  wait  and  serve  and  build  for  a  man  like 
that.  Why,  if  a  thief  took  his  purse,  he  would  only  wish 
to  give  him  a  greater  thing.  .  .  .  Moreover,  he's  one 
of  the  Voices  that  will  break  Woman's  silence  of  the 
centuries." 

"  I  believe  much  that  he  says — all  that  he  says,"  Kate 
Wilkes  replied,  "that  Woman  is  the  bread-giver,  spirit 
ual  and  material;  that  it  is  she  who  conserves  the  ideals 
and  rewards  man  for  fineness  and  power — when  she  has 
a  chance.  But  I  also  believe  that  Woman  must  conquer 
in  herself — the  love  of  luxury,  her  vanity,  her  fierce  com 
petition  for  worldly  position — if  only  for  the  disastrous 
effect  of  such  evils  upon  men.  They  force  him  to  lower 
his  dreams  of  her,  who  should  be  high-priestess." 

"  He  has  not  missed  that,"  Cairns  said,  "  but  there 
have  been  multitudes  to  tell  Woman  her  faults.  Bedient 
restores  the  dreams  of  women.  .  .  .  It  is  Woman 
who  has  turned  the  brute  mind  of  the  world  from  War, 
and  Woman  will  turn  the  furious  current  of  the  race 
to-day  from  the  Pits  of  Trade,  where  abides  the  Twen 
tieth  Century  Lie." 

"  David,  you're  steering  straight  through  the  Big 
Deep,"  Kate  Wilkes  told  him. 

"  I  should  have  been  of  untimely  birth,  if  he  had  not 
come  to  me  as  the  most  rousing  and  inspiring  of  world- 
men.  His  face  is  turned  away  toward  a  Great  Light. 
He  has  put  on  power  wonderfully  in  the  last  few  months. 
.  .  .  He  moves  with  men,  but  he  sees  beyond.  I  know 
that !  And  all  makes  for  the  most  glowing  optimism.  He 
sees  that  our  race  is  on  the  shadowy  borders  of  cosmic 
consciousness,  as  the  brightest  of  our  domestic  animals 
to-day  are  on  the  borders  of  self-consciousness.  He  sees 
that  Woman  will  be  the  great  teacher  when  humanity 
rises.  Every  thing  is  bright  to  him  in  this  shocking 
modern  hour,  for  it  heralds  the  advent  of  the  Risen 


Another  Smilax  Affair  369 

Woman!  .  .  .  Yes,  I  am  full  of  this.  I  have  been 
getting-  his  letters,  and  writing  about  the  things  he  has 
made  me  think.  The  good  that  we  do  for  the  race — 
comes  back — for  we  are  the  race  always.  I've  already 
found  so  much  that  is  good  in  the  world,  that  I  praise 
God  every  morning  of  my  life ! " 

Beth  had  come.    She  was  standing  beside  him. 

"  Glorious,  David,"  she  said. 

And  now  Vina  appeared,  to  lead  them  to  the  big 
round  table  in  the  room  of  the  cabinets. 

"  He  will  be  here  in  a  minute,"  she  said. 

At  each  place  of  the  table  was  an  engraved  card,  which 
Vina  explained :  "  When  Mr.  Bedient  first  came  to  my 
studio — to  me  it  was  a  wonderful  afternoon.  I  asked  him 
to  write  for  me  some  of  the  things  he  said,  and  I  thought 
you  would  like  to  keep — what  came  of  the  request — his 
Credo: 

I  BELIEVE 

In  the  natural  greatness  of  Woman ;  that 
through  the  spirit  of  Woman  are  born  sons  of 
strength ;  that  only  through  the  potential  great 
ness  of  Woman  comes  the  militant  greatness  of 
man. 

I  believe  Mothering  is  the  loveliest  of  the 
Arts;  that  great  mothers  are  hand-maidens  of 
the  Spirit,  to  whom  are  intrusted  God's  avatars ; 
that  no  prophet  is  greater  than  his  mother. 

I  believe  when  humanity  arises  to  Spiritual 
evolution  (as  it  once  evolved  through  Flesh,  and 
is  now  evolving  through  Mind),  Woman  will 
assume  the  ethical  guiding  of  the  race. 

I  believe  that  the  Holy  Spirit  of  the  Trinity 
is  Mystic  Motherhood,  and  the  source  of  the 
divine  principle  in  Woman ;  that  Prophets  are 
the  union  of  this  divine  principle  and  higher 
manhood;  that  they  are  beyond  the  attractions 
24 


370  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

of  women  of  flesh,  because  unto  their  manhood 
has  been  added  Mystic  Motherhood. 

I  believe  in  the  Godhood  of  the  Christ ;  that 
unto  the  manhood  of  the  Son  and  Mystic 
Motherhood  was  added,  upon  Resurrection,  the 
Third  Lustrous  Dimension  of  the  Father-God; 
that,  thus  Jesus  became  the  first  fruit  of  earth, 
and  thus  He  is  enhanced  above  St.  Paul  and  the 
Forerunner,  becoming  Three  in  One — Man,  risen 
to  Prophecy  through  illumination  of  the  Holy 
Spirit,  and  to  Godhood,  through  his  ineffable 
services  to  Men. 

I  believe  that  the  way  to  Godhood  is  the  Ris 
ing  Road  of  Man. 

I  believe  that,  as  the  human  mother  brings 
a  child  to  her  husband,  the  father, — so  Mystic 
Motherhood,  the  Holy  Spirit,  is  bringing  the 
world  to  God,  the  Father. 

All  had  read,  when  Bedient  entered.  He  went  first 
to  Beth.  .  .  . 

"  It's  our  own  original  gathering,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment,  " — but  Mrs.  Wordling — where  is  she?" 

Cairns'  eye  turned  to  Beth.  She  fixed  hers  upon  him, 
as  if  it  helped  to  hold  her  strength. 

Kate  Wilkes  answered :  "  We  can  find  out  in  a  mo 
ment — in  the  West  somewhere  with  her  company " 

"  She's  in  Detroit  this  week,"  came  slowly  from  Beth. 
"  I  saw  it  to-day  in  a  dramatic  paper " 

"  Thank  you.  .  .  .  We'll  send  a  telegram  of 
greeting.  She  must  know  she  isn't  forgotten." 

He  wrote  it  out. 

Kate  Wilkes  glanced  at  the  Grey  One,  as  if  to  say: 
"  Here's  something  to  make  her  forget  the  soul  of  New 
York." 

"  I'm  thankful  to  be  here,"  Bedient  said,  in  a  moment. 
"  It's  like  one's  very  own." 


FORTIETH  CHAPTER 

FULL  DAY  UPON  THE  PLAIN 

BETH  awoke  early  Christmas  morning,  and  leaned 
out  of  the  window  to  look  at  the  East.  After  a  week  of 
the  year's  darkest  days,  had  come  a  lordly  morn,  bright 
garments  fresh  from  ocean.  .  .  .  The  night  had 
shown  her  clearly  the  great  thing  which  had  befallen 
Andrew  Bedient,  a  suggestion  of  which  had  come  to  her 
from  the  first  Equatorian  letter.  And  how  wonderfully 
his  life  had  prepared  him  for  it!  .  .  .  Thirty-odd 
swift  strange  years — ships,  Asia,  queer  voices,  far  travels, 
unspoken  friendships,  possibly  a  point  or  two  of  passion, 
glimpses  into  dim  lands  and  dark  lives,  the  adored  mem 
ory  of  his  Mother  whispered  only  to  one  dear  living  heart, 
yet  glowing  over  all  his  days 

"  It  was  a  man's  love,  then,"  Beth  whispered. 

She  remembered  his  comings  and  goings,  his  sayings 
and  silences.  All  were  leveled  and  subdued  by  a  serene 
and  far-evolved  spirit ;  and  upon  all  was  the  flower  of 
truth.  His  love  had  been  an  inner  reverent  thing  which 
did  not  vaunt  itself.  All  but  once  the  passions  he  had  felt 
were  his  own  deep  property.  .  .  .  The  Shadowy 
Sister,  who  would  live  on  when  the  worn  out-earth  of  her 
being  sank  into  its  seventh  year  of  restoring, — yes,  the 
Shadowy  Sister  had  been  chastened  and  strengthened  by 
his  passing. 

.  .  .  Beth  saw  the  little  boy,  faring  forth  alone 
without  the  Mother's  hand — out  into  the  great  world  of 
sea — under  his  star.  Not  a  single  preconception  had 
his  mind  contained.  Everything  in  the  world  had  been 
for  him  to  take,  and  when  he  would  have  taken  some 
thing  ill,  the  Mother  had  come  and  prevailed.  .  .  . 
Only  once  he  was  denied — she,  Beth,  had  done  that.  Did 
the  Mother  prevail  against  her?  .  .  .  But  how 
mightily  had  he  desired  her ! 

371 


372  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Beth  saw  she  had  betrayed  herself.  She  had  been 
too  much  an  artist  of  the  world,  too  little  a  visionary. 
She  had  not  seen  deeply  enough  his  inner  beauty  and 
integrity ;  too  accustomed  had  she  become  to  the  myriad- 
flaring  commonness  of  daily  life.  .  .  .  But  would 
the  greater  dimension  have  come  to  him,  if  she  had 
given  him  the  happiness  he  thought  he  wanted?  Had. 
he  turned  to  Vina  Nettleton  the  man-love  she,  Beth,  had 
felt,  and  been  answered  with  swift  adoration,  would  he 
have  met  in  this  life  the  Great  Light  on  his  hills? 

.  .  .  Too  much  artist — how  Beth  understood  what 
that  meant  now !  There  is  a  way  to  God  through  the  arts, 
but  it  is  a  way  of  quicksands  and  miasmas,  of  deep 
forests  and  abysses.  Only  giants  emerge  unhurt  in  spirit. 
The  artist  is  taught  to  worship  line  and  surface ;  his  early 
paths  are  the  paths  of  sensuousness.  He  may  be  held  true 
at  first  by  the  rigors  of  denial — but  what  a  turning  is 
the  first  success — his  every  capacity  of  sense  is  suddenly 
tested,  as  only  an  artist's  can  be !  Then,  the  hatred  of  the 
unsuccessful ;  he  must  forge  ahead  in  the  teeth  of  a  great 
wind  of  contemporary  hostility,  which  rouses  the  Ego 
and  not  the  Spirit.  And  finally  the  artist  must  choose 
between  his  visions,  for  alike  come  purity  and  evil.  The 
road  of  genius  runs  ever  close  to  the  black  abyss  of  mad 
ness.  The  human  mind  ignited  with  genius  is  like  an  old 
time-weakened  building,  in  which  is  installed  new 
machinery  of  startling  power.  What  a  racking  upon  old 
fabric ! 

The  simple  religious  nature  with  its  ventures  into  a 
milder  spiritual  country,  puts  on  glory  with  far  less 
danger  and  pain  than  the  artist,  and  what  a  perfect  sur 
face  is  prepared  within  him  for  the  arts  to  be  painted 


upon 


Beth  knew  she  had  lived  her  art-life  bravely,  loved 
her  work  with  valor,  and  served  it  with  the  best  of 
her  eye  and  hand.  The  life  of  fust-woman,  she  had 
wanted  more,  and  idealized  as  only  an  artist  can — to  be 


Full  Day  Upon  the  Plain  373 

a  man's  maiden,  a  man's  mate  and  the  mother  of  his 
babes,  but  this  was  not  for  her.  The  man  had  come,  and 
she  had  turned  him  away.  Just-woman  would  have  held 
him  fast.  Yes,  it  was  the  artist  that  had  faltered  at  the 
right  moment — the  resolute  creative  force  within  her, 
weathered  in  suffering-,  not  to  be  intimidated,  slow, 
tragically  slow  to  bow  down.  ...  A  little  Salvation 
band  passed  below : 

Joy  to  the  world, 
The  Lord  is  Come 

Eight  notes  of  the  descending  scale  sounded  mightily 
from  drum  and  cornet.  .  .  . 

Bedient  was  coming  this  morning.  He  had  asked  to, 
the  night  before ;  asked  if  he  might  come  early.  .  .  . 
What  a  morning  for  bleak  December!  She  went  to  the 
window.  Islands  of  rose  and  lily  were  softly  blooming 
in  the  lakes  of  Eastern  light.  Heaven  was  building  in 
the  East — its  spires  to  rise  unto  high  noon.  .  .  . 

His  step  was  on  the  stair.  Beth  hurried  to  the 
door.  She  saw  his  strange  smile,  and  the  bundle  in 
his  arms. 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  to  play  with  him  for  a 
while,"  he  said.  "  He's  a  wonderfully  blessed  little  boy. 
.  .  .  You  really  had  to  see  him " 

Beth  had  taken  the  babe  to  a  far  corner — and  rushed 
to  shut  the  window.  Now,  she  bent  over  the  coverings. 

"  I  have  always  wanted  to  see  you,  just  like  that," 
Bedient  added.  "...  I  know  the  little  boy's  story. 
.  .  .  He  is  amazingly  rich — they  both  gave  him  the 
blue  flower.  He  is  love-essence.  .  .  .  May  I  leave 
him  a  little  while,  until  I  get  some  other  things  ?  " 

Out  of  the  fervent  heat — he  had  come.  Beth  looked 
up.  Bedient  had  drawn  back  to  the  door.  Light  from 
the  hidden  sun  was  in  the  room.  .  .  .  He  was  gone. 


374  Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door 

Beth  did  not  yet  know  the  babe's  story.  Some  dying 
woman's  love-child,  she  thought.  .  .  .  She  would  give 
him  her  years — to  make  him  brave  and  beautiful.  It 
would  be  her  gift  to  the  world — her  greatest  painting — 
and  the  little  child  would  name  it  Mother. 

"  He  means  me  to  have  it !  "  she  murmured.  "  I 
think  this  has  been  struggling  to  get  into  my  heart  for 
years — the  child  of  some  woman  who  has  kissed  and 
died  for  it!  .  .  .1  think — I  think  this  is  the  end  of 
the  fiery  waiting.  .  .  .  Little  boy,  you  shall  heal  the 
broken  dreams,  and  I  shall  read  in  your  eyes — the  world- 
secret  which  aches  so  heavily  in  the  breasts  of  women." 

Long  afterward  she  heard  his  step  upon  the  stair 
again.  .  .  .  As  she  turned  to  the  door  from  the  far 
corner — there  was  a  tiny  cry — just  as  she  had  heard  it 
before — in  that  high  noon. 

She  went  back  to  the  child. 

And  Bedient  with  further  bundles,  waited  smiling 
outside  the  door, 


END. 


"  THE  STRONGEST  AMERICAN  NOVEL'' 

Chicago  Journal 

She  Buildeth  Her  House 

By  WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 

COLORED  FRONTISPIECE  BY  MARTIN  JUSTICE. 
DECORATED  CLOTH    -    -    -    $1.1$  NET. 


This  second  novel  by  the  author  of  "  Routledge  Rides  Alone," 
a  story  still  gaining  in  sales  and  winning  enthusiasm  with  the  force 
and  certainty  of  a  classic,  is  a  maker  of  literary  history.  Seldom 
has  the  author  of  a  first  great  novel  so  brilliantly  transcended  his 
initial  success.  <J  A  man  and  a  woman  inspiringly  fitted  for  each 
other  sweep  into  the  zone  of  mutual  attraction  at  the  opening  of 
the  story.  Destiny  demands  that  they  overcome  certain  formidable 
destructive  forces  before  either  is  tempered  and  refined  for  the 
glorious  Union  of  Two  to  form  One.  <I  The  Woman's  enemy  is 
one  of  the  most  fascinating  but  terrible  figures  in  fiction,  the 
occulist,  Bellingham.  The  Man's  foes  are  the  rending  animal  forces 
of  Self.  The  book  is  an  arena  for  their  conflicts,  exemplified  at  the 
end  by  a  historic  convulsion  of  nature,  portrayed  in  the  story  with 
almost  incredible  power,  fl  The  Woman  is  painted  with  strange 
intimacy  and  startling  skill.  Around  her  always  is  that  lustre  of 
ideality  which  alone  can  come  from  the  masculine  mind.  The 
House  that  She  builds  is  a  lovely  Soul.  Her  mate  is  fashioned  of 
red  passions  and  the  white  fires  of  spirit.  Out  of  their  own  strug 
gles  and  through  cataclysmic  disorders  of  nature,  they  emerge  at 
the  end,  Supreme  Man,  Serene  Woman.  <J  For  plot,  intensity, 
dramatic  heights,  and  masterly  handling,  Mr.  Comfort's  new  novel 
sets  a  high  mark  for  American  novel  production. 


•'  The  house  which  is  being  built  is  the  House  of  Life,  and  Will  Levington 
Comfort  shows  that  woman  may  be  the  ideal  architect  of  the  ages." 

— Richmond  Times  Dispatch. 

"  A  scenic  setting  worthy  of  Olympians." 

— Edwin  Markham  in  The  New  York  American. 

"  Style  has  distinction,  every  page  is  stamped  with  the  hallmark  of  brains.'* 

— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  Transcriptive  of  everybody's  life — Comfort — an  American  Literary  asset 
unlimited." — Washington  Star. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  PHILADELPHIA 


*<<EASILY    THE    BOOK    OF    THE    DAT" 

San  Francisco  Argonaut 

Routledge  Rides  Alone 

By  WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 

COLORED  FRONTISPIECE  BY  MARTIN  JUSTICE 
12MO.    CLOTH,  WITH  INLAY  IN  COLORS,  $1.50 

HERE  is  a   tale   indeed — big   and   forceful,  palpitating  with 
interest,    and    written  with   the  sureness  of  touch  and  the 
breadth  of  a  man  who  is  master  of  his  art.      Mr.  Comfort 
has  drawn  upon  two  practically  new  story -places  in  the  world  of 
fiction  to  furnish  the  scenes  for  his  narrative — India  and  Manchuria 
at  the  rime  of  the  Russo-Japanese  War.      While  the  novel  is  dis 
tinguished  by  its  clear  and  vigorous  war  scenes,  the  fine  and  sweet 
romance  of  the  love  of  the  hero,   Routledge — a  brave,  strange, 
and  talented  American — for  the  "most  beautiful  woman  in  Lon 
don  "  rivals  these  in  interest. 

The  story  opens  in  London,  sweeps  up  and  down  Asia,  and 
reaches  its  most  rousing  pitch  on  the  ghastly  field  of  Liaoyang,  in 
Manchuria.  The  one-hundred-mile  race  from  the  field  to  a  free 
cable  outside  the  war  zone,  between  Routledge  and  an  English 
war  correspondent,  is  as  exciting  and  enthralling  as  anything  that 
has  appeared  in  fiction  in  recent  years. 

'*  A  big,  vital,  forceful  story  that  towers  giant-high — a  romance  to  lure  the 
hours  away  in  tense  interest — a  book  with  a  message  for  all  mankind. " 

— Detroit  Fret  Prctt. 

"  Three  such  magnificent  figures  as  Roudedge,  Noreen,  and  Rawder  never 
before  have  appeared  together  in  fiction.  Take  it  all  in  all,  '  Roudedge  Rides 
Alone '  is  a  great  novel,  full  of  sublime  conception,  one  of  the  few  novels  that 
are  as  ladders  from  heaven  to  earth." — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

"The  story  unfolds  a  vast  and  vivid  panorama  of  life.  The  first  chapter* 
remind  one  strongly  of  the  descriptive  Kipling  we  once  knew.  We  commend  die 
book  for  its  sustained  interest.  We  recommend  it  for  its  descriptive  power." 

— Boston  Evening  Transcript. 

"  Here  is  one  of  die  strongest  novels  of  die  year ;  a  happy  blending  of 
romance  and  realism,  vivid,  imaginative,  dramatic,  and,  above  all,  a  well  told  story 
with  a  purpose.  It  is  a  red-blooded  story  of  war  and  love,  with  a  touch  of  th» 
mysticism  of  India,  some  world  politics,  love  of  country,  and  hate  of  oppression— 
a  tale  of  clean  and  expert  workmanship,  powerful  and  personal." 

— Pittfburg  Dispatch. 

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PUBLISHERS  PHILADELPHIA 


By    ELIZABETH    DE  JEANS 

The  Winning  Chance 

Frontispiece  in  color  by  Gayle  P.  Hoskins. 
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WE  have  no  hesitancy  in  pronouncing  this  powerful  story 
one  of  the  most  impressive  studies  of  our  highly  nervous 
American  life  that  has  been  published  in  a  long  while. 
It  is  written  with  enormous  vitality  and  emotional  energy.    The 
grip  it  takes  on  one  intensifies  as  the  story  proceeds. 

The  Heart  of  Desire 

Illustrations  in  colors  by  The  Kinneys. 
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A  REMARKABLE  novel,  full  of  vital  force,  which  gives  us 
a  glimpse  into  the  innermost  sanctuary  of  a  woman's  soul 
—  a  revelation  of  the  truth  that  to  a  woman  there  may  be 
a  greater  thing  than  the  love  of  a  man  —  the   story  pictured 
against  a  wonderful  Southern  California  background. 

The  Far  Triumph 

Illustrated  in  color  by  Martin  Justice. 
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HERE  is  a  romance,  strong  and  appealing,  one  which  will 
please  all   classes  of  readers.     From  the  opening  of  the 
story  until  the  last  word  of  the  last  chapter  Mrs.  Dejeans' 
great  novel  of  modern  American  life  will  hold  the  reader's  un 
flagging  interest.     Living,  breathing  people  move  before  us, 
and  the  author  touches  on  some  phases  of  society  of  momentous 
interest  to  women  —  and  to  men. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


AND  ACTION  A'PLENTT 

IN  HER  OWN  RIGHT 

By  JOHN  REED  SCOTT 

Author  of  "The  Impostor,"     "The  Colonel  of  the  Red  Huzzars," 
"The  Woman  in  Question,"     "The  Princess  Dehra."  etc. 

Three  colored  illustrations 

By  CLARENCE  F.  UNDERWOOD 

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IN   this   new   novel  Mr.  Scott  returns  to   modern 
times,  where  he  is  as  much  at  home  as  when  writing 
of  imaginary  kingdoms  or  the  days  of  powder  and 
patches.     Mr.  Scott's   last   novel,   "The  Impostor," 
had  Annapolis  in  1776  as  its  locale,  but  he  shows  his 
versatility  by  centering  the  important  events  of  this 
romance  in  and  around  Annapolis  of  today. 

There  are  mystery  and  action  a-plenty,  and  a 
charming  love  interest  adds  greatly  to  an  already 
brilliant  and  exciting  narrative. 


CRITICAL  OPINIONS 

"A  brisk  and  cleanly  tale." — Smart  Set. 

"A  sparkling,  appealing  novel  of  today." — Portland  Oregonian. 

"Enjoys  the  exceptional  merit  of  being  a  stirring  treasure  tale 
kept  within  the  bounds  of  likelihood." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"A  charming  and  captivating  romance  filled  with  action  from 
the  opening  to  the  close,  so  fascinating  is  the  story  wrought." 

— Pittsburg  Post. 

"Just  such  a  dashing  tale  of  love  and  adventure  as  habitual 
fiction  readers  have  learned  to  expect  from  Mr.  Scott.  A  well 
told  tale  with  relieving  touches  of  dry  humor  and  a  climax  un 
usual  and  strong." — Chicago  Record  Herald. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY  **£££££ 


By     AMELIE    RIVES. 

(PRINCESS  TROUBETSKOY) 

The  Quick  or  the  Dead 

A  STUDY! 

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Barbara    Bering 

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'  I  AHE  extraordinary  sensation  caused,  at  the  time 
•^  of  publication,  of  these  two  books  (they  are  one 
story)  marked  a  new  thing  in  literature.  "The  younger 
Set"  who  did  not  then  read  them  will  be  surprised  at 
their  freshness  and  power  of  interest,  and  those  who 
did  and  are  now  wise  enough  to  renew  their  acquain 
tance  may  be  surprised  at  the  change  in  their  own 
personal  point  of  view  in  the  comparatively  few  years 
since  these  books  were  written. 


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ROMANCES  by  DAVID  POTTER 
The  Lady  of  the  Spur 

'T^HE  scenes  of  this  delightful  romance  are  set  in  the  south 
western  part  of   New  Jersey,  during  the  years  1820-30. 
An  unusual  situation  develops  when  Tom  Bell,  a  quondam 
gentleman  highwayman,  returns  to  take  up  the  offices  of  the 
long-lost  heir,  Henry  Morvan.     Troubles  thicken  about  him  and 
along  with  them  the  romance  develops.     Through  it  all  rides 
"The  Lady  of  the  Spur"  with  a  briskness,  charm,  and  mystery 
about  her  that  give  an  unusual  zest  to  the  book  from  its  very 
first  page. 

Third  edition.    Colored  frontispiece  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 
i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

I  Fasten  a  Bracelet 

WHY  should  a  young  well-bred  girl  be  under  a  vow  of 
obedience  to  a  man  after  she  had  broken  her  engagement 
to  him?  This  is  the  mysterious  situation  that  is  presented 
in  this  big  breezy  out-of-doors  romance.     When  Craig  Schuyler, 
after  several  years'  absence,  returns  home,  and  without   any 
apparent  reason  fastens  on  Nell  Sutphen  an  iron  bracelet.  A  se 
quence  of  thrilling  events  is  started  which  grip  the  imagination 
powerfully,  and  seems  to  "  get  under  the  skin."    There  is  a  vein 
of  humor  throughout,  which  relieves  the  story  of  grimness. 
Frontispiece  in  color  by  Martin  Justice. 
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An  Accidental  Honeymoon 

A    SPARKLING-  and  breezy  romance  of  modern  times,  the 
/~\    scenes  laid  in  Maryland.     The  plot  is  refreshingly  novel 
and    delightfully  handled.     The  heroine  is    one    of    the 
"  fetchingest  "  little  persons  in  the  realms  of  fiction.     The  other 
characters  are  also  excellently  drawn,  each  standing  out  clear  and 
distinct,  even  the  minor  ones.     The  dialogue  of  the  story  is  re 
markably  good,  and  through  it  all  runs  a  vein  of  delightful  humor. 

Eight  illustrations  in  color  by  George  W.  Gage. 
Marginal  decorations  on  each  page. 
1 2  mo.     Ornamental  cloth,  $1.35  net. 

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A  NOVEL  OF  THE  REAL  WEST 

"ME— SMITH" 

By  CAROLINE  LOCKHART 

With  five  illustrations  by  Gayle  Hoskins 

I2mo.     Cloth,  }$ i. 20  net. 


TV/TISS  LOCKHART  is  a  true  daughter  of  the  West, 
*'  her  father  being  a  large  ranch-owner  and  she  has 
had  much  experience  in  the  saddle  and  among  the  people 
who  figure  in  her  novel,  fl  "  Smith  "  is  one  type  of  Western 
"  Bad  Man,"  an  unusually  powerful  and  appealing  char 
acter  who  grips  and  holds  the  reader  through  all  his 
deeds,  whether  good  or  bad.  fl  It  is  a  story  with  red 
blood  in  it.  There  is  the  cry  of  the  coyote,  the  deadly 
thirst  for  revenge  as  it  exists  in  the  wronged  Indian  to 
ward  the  white  man,  the  thrill  of  the  gaming  table,  and 
the  gentlenesss  of  pure,  true  love.  To  the  very  end  the 
tense  dramatisrn  of  the  tale  is  maintained  without  relax 
ation. 

"  Gripping,  vigorous  story." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 
"  This  is  a  real  novel,  a  big  novel." — Indianapolis  News. 

"Not  since  the  publication  of  'The  Virginian'  has  so  powerful  a 
cowboy  story  been  told." — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"  A  remarkable  book  in  its  strength  of  portrayal  and  its  directness 
of  development.  It  cannot  be  read  without  being  remembered." — The 
World  To-Day. 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  PHILADELPHIA 


PHRYNETTE 

BY 

MARTHE      TROLY-CURTIN 


With  a  frontispiece  by  FRANK  DESCH 
I2tno.     Decorated    cloth,    $1.25    net 


PHRYNETTE  is  seventeen,  extremely  clever  and 
naive,  and  attractive  in  every  way.  The  death 
of  her  French  father  in  Paris  leaves  her  an  orphan, 
and  she  goes  to  London  to  live  with  an  aunt  of  Scotch 
descent.  Her  impressions  of  the  people,  the  happen 
ings  and  the  places  she  becomes  familiar  with,  peculiar 
ities  of  customs  and  every  little  thing  of  interest  are 
all  touched  upon  in  a  charming  and  original  manner, 
while  in  places  there  is  irresistible  humor.  Through 
out  there  is  a  good  solid  love  story,  and  the  ending  is 
all  that  is  to  be  desired. 

"A  very  charming  novel."  — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

"Original,  clever  and  extremely  well- written."  — Pittsburg  Dispatch. 

"  Refreshingly  original  and  full  of  wholesome  mirth.    To  say  that  the  book  is 
delightful  reading  is  understating  the  fact."  — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger^ 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  PHILADELPHIA 


By    CAROLYN    W  E  L  L  S 

THE  GOLD  BAG 

f  f 'T^HE  Gold  Bag"  is  so  unlike  the  usual  products  of  Miss 
Wells'  pen  that  one  wonders  if  she  possesses  a  dual  per 
sonality  or  is  it  merely  extraordinary  versatility,  for  she 
can  certainly  write  detective  stories  just  as  well  as  she  can  write 
nonsense  verse.  The  story  is  told  in  the  first  person  by  a  mod 
est  young  sleuth  who  is  sent  to  a  suburban  place  to  ferret  out 
the  mystery  which  shrouds  the  murder  of  a  prominent  man. 
Circumstancial  evidence  in  the  shape  of  a  gol  d  mesh  bag  points 
to  a  woman  as  the  criminal,  and  the  only  possible  one  is  the  dead 
man's  niece  with  whom  the  detective  promptly  falls  in  love, 
though  she  is  already  engaged  to  her  uncle's  secretary,  an 
alliance  which  the  dead  man  insisted  must  be  discontinued,  other 
wise  he  would  disinherit  the  girl.  The  story  is  well  told  and  the 
interest  is  cleverly  aroused  and  sustained. 

Second  edition.    With  a  colored  frontispiece.     12  mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.20  net. 


THE  CLUE 

THIS  is  a  detective  story,  and  no  better  or  more  absorbing 
one  has  appeared  in  a  long  time.  The  book  opens  with  the 
violent  death  of  a  young  heiress — apparently  a  suicide. 
But  a  shrewd  young  physician  waxes  suspicious,  and.  finally  con 
vinces  the  wooden-headed  coroner  that  the  girl  has  been  mur 
dered.  The  finger  of  suspicion  points  at  various  people  in  turn, 
but  each  of  them  proves  his  innocence.  Finally  Fleming  Stone, 
the  detective  who  figured  in  a  previous  detective  story  by  this 
author,  is  called  in  to  match  his  wits  against  those  of  a  particu 
larly  astute  villian.  Needless  to  say  that  in  the  end  right 
triumphs. 

With  a  colored  frontispiece.     12  mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 


J.    B.   LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  PHILADELPHIA 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


16  195* 


Form  L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


PS    Comfort  - 
3505  knocks  at  the 
door 


A  000918142 


PS 

3505 

C?3f 


